


Afield of Daisies

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, BAMF John, Big Brother Mycroft, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Unrequited Love, falltvseasonsherlock, super powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8281867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: Sherlock is a man with an unusual gift; his touch brings back the dead. However, for every life restored for more than precisely 66 seconds, another must go in their place and if he ever touches the resurrected again they will immediately die. 

  At the urging of his brother and Detective Inspector Lestrade he attempts to use his ability and superior intellect for good, solving murders. After all, murders are easier to solve when you can ask the victim who did it.

  Alone is what he has always had and sentimentality and love are a dangerous weakness he cannot afford… that is until he meets ex-army doctor John Watson and his world is transformed.

  
    
  
   A Pushing Daisies fusion fic for the Fall TV Season Sherlock Tumblr challenge.





	1. The Irrational Constant (Pi)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChrisCalledMeSweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a young boy Sherlock discovers his unusual ability with deadly drawbacks. Sentimentality and love are a dangerous weakness he cannot afford… that is until he meets ex-army doctor John Watson.

At this very moment in the town of Coeur d'Coeurs William Sherlock Scott Holmes is running through a vibrant field of wild flowers. He is precisely 9 years, 12 weeks, 5 days, 2 hours and 17 minutes old. 

The technicolor blue of a clear, summer sky stretches above and the beautiful sunlight oversaturates the world in warm, rich light. The wind tangles through his chocolate brown curls, and whistles past his ears. His feet pound against the dirt in time with his heart in his chest. Daisies lash at his scabbed knees. Delicate, white petals are cast asunder, drifting to the earth only to be crushed under his muddy shoes. The sweet, earthy smell fills his burning lungs with each breath. 

Everything is brilliantly and incandescently _alive._

Ahead of him, the sea of white and yellow parts around a dark red, furry body barreling forward relentlessly. Paws thud in their own rhythm; a staccato full of vibrant, playful joy. 

“Come back here with me treasure, ye scourge!” young William shouts, snarling his face in his best imitation of a pirate. Digging deep for the strength, he quickens his pace. He strains to put a hand upon that bobbing fluff of silky fur dashing into the undergrowth.

_Closer… Closer… Closer still…_

Just as his hand feels the tickle of fur, the dog cuts hard to the right and dashes away, tail bouncing like a flag above the layer of flowers.

_Clever dog._

“Redbeard,” the boy laughs in delight and makes a much less graceful turn to follow; long, awkward legs scrambling with the earth and weeds sliding beneath them. “Come 'ere an' have a cutlass sandwich ye jumped up, grass combin', gold stealin', weasel.” He growls, laughing as he struggles to catch up. Redbeard disappears over the horizon of a small swell of earth. The boy mounts the hill and looks down as Redbeard emerges at the bottom. 

His body naturally recoils at the loud squeal of tires and the fast moving flash of an enormous metal beast cutting across their path. 

The world is suddenly silent, stripped of everything except the horrific, slow motion sight of Redbeard flying through the air, as if taking flight by his own propulsion; the magical superpowers the boy often pretended the dog possessed suddenly made real. Then he crashes to the hard asphalt; body unnaturally contorted and hauntingly still. 

The air is gone. The sun has been extinguished. Without ever consciously telling himself to move, the boy finds himself kneeling in the road beside that motionless body, the hot breath from the radiator of the semi-truck ruffling his dark, curly hair. The rough road stings under his knees and the smell of death clings to him like a film; seeping in, coating his lungs.

At precisely 9 years, 12 weeks, 5 days, 2 hours and 26 minutes old the world of William Sherlock Scott Holmes shatters. His constant companion, his only friend, the one creature he loves most in the world, is cruelly snatched away from him in an instant.

Young William stares down in shock. His body shakes as cold reality begins to curl around his heart. The beautiful, auburn fur of his friend trembles in the slight breeze, but it is lifeless now; somehow duller. A heart-shaped daisy petal still clings to the hair at Redbeard’s muzzle; its delicate white marred by a single speck of red blood. 

It seems _wrong_. 

He reaches out with one trembling hand and he _feels it_. In that instant when his finger touches Redbeard, a wave of cold passes through him. Then, from deep inside, a flash of heat radiates out. There is a small electrical pop at the point of contact, and a jolt passes between them, like a static electric shock.

At precisely 3 years, 2 weeks, 6 days, 5 hours and 9 minutes old the impossible happens to an Irish Setter named Redbeard. On the road, beside a field of daisies, he is resurrected from the dead.

Redbeard scrambles to his feet and bounds away as if the world had never been sucked of all its joy and beauty while the boy's only friend lay still, cold and, most certainly, _dead_. 

William stares down at the single white daisy petal, stained in blood, resting innocently in the palm of his hand. He closes his hand around it, gets up and runs after Redbeard.

\-------

“Father! Father! The most _amazing thing_ just happened...” William bursts in the open greenhouse door, following after Redbeard. 

William Scott Holmes looks up at his son from the bonsai tree he is tenderly pruning; his hazel eyes are warm and sparkling in the hazy light of the enclosure. 

The boy freezes, straightening under the intense stare of the other young man in the building. Standing primly in shiny shoes, perfectly pressed dress trousers and an immaculate white dress shirt, young William's older brother is glaring at him with an air of disgust. 

The brown eyes of the imposing young man travel over young William's dirty and tattered figure with his mouth turned down as if he has just tasted something bitter. He sniffs and tilts his chin up to look further down his sharp nose at the intruder upon his conversation.

Mycroft Holmes is precisely 7 years, 18 weeks, 9 days and 43 minutes older than young William, but they exist in entirely different worlds. 

William's world is a vast universe of magic, mystery, imagination and intrigue whereas Mycroft's consists entirely of rules and strict logic. 

While they both are, to put it mildly, _remarkably intelligent,_ young William takes after his father in more than name. They share a highly creative, playful and sensitive nature that both Mycroft and the boys’ mother find irritating to no end. It baffles their highly analytical and emotionally conservative sensibilities. 

It has been years since young William has felt anything other than disinterest and mild disgust from his older sibling who sees him as childish, uncivilized and lacking in all of the proper qualities befitting their status.

“What is it, Billy?” Elder William says with a large grin. He looks nothing like his two sons that favor their mother with their pale skin and tall, thin frames. Elder William is shorter, broad of shoulder, tanned from his work in the garden and with brown blonde hair that has nearly gone white from age. “Pirates steal yer treasure 'gin.” Elder William parries and lunges with his pruning shears like it is a sword. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes and steps forward, making a little shooing motion with his hands.

“Run along now, Sherlock. The _adults_ are talking,” he sighs.

Young William takes a step back. Only Mycroft calls him _Sherlock_. He says he uses that middle name because he hopes his baby brother will aspire to be worthy of such a _distinctive name,_ which comes from their mother’s noble roots. However, young William has long suspected it is because his brother resents the rather unconventional choice by their father to not name his first child after himself, but rather his second son. Mycroft, always highly sensitive to those sort of societal expectations and norms, likely resents it as a first born privilege that his younger brother somehow denied him.

“Hold on, Myc. It can wait. Thievin’ pirates and stolen treasure though, that's _serious business_.” Elder William gives his youngest an encouraging wink, but young William takes another step back out of the doorway.

“No, it’s silly,” he says shuffling his feet in the dirt. 

“No doubt,” grumbles Mycroft turning his back to the boy in clear dismissal.

“Come on, Redbeard,” young William calls, trusting his companion to follow. However, Redbeard does not move. He is sitting at their father’s feet, starting up at him and whimpering faintly. 

The boy hears the crash behind him as he begins to sprint away. As he whirls back around the first thing he notices, in confusion, is the prize winning Semper Augusta Tulip toppled from the workbench. The flower, with its beautiful white petals vividly streaked with dark burgundy flames, lies on its side; its pot shattered on the ground, and Mycroft is _kneeling in its dirt._ This is so uncharacteristic for his fastidiously clean brother that it takes the boy several seconds to process that the reason his brother is crouched in the dirt is that their father is lying, unmoving, amongst the debris. 

Young William feels as if he has been plunged into cold water. His stomach is twisting in knots. 

“Don't just stand there like an idiot, get help!” Mycroft barks. The frantic look in his older brother’s eyes is so foreign that young William sucks in a breath and stumbles backwards a few steps. Mycroft has started CPR; pushing hard into the center of their father's unmoving chest. 

_Pump, pump, pump, pump. Breath. Breath._

_Pump, pump, pump, pump. Breath. Breath._

Young William watches with terror sealing him inside his own frozen body; a mere witness the horrible scene unfolding. 

“Now,” snaps Mycroft, looking back at him. The boy stumbles forward instead.

It _can't_ be a coincidence.

“I - I can help,” he stutters, reaching towards his father.

“Sherlock! For god's sake!” Mycroft stands up and shoves the younger boy back. Mycroft is a good two feet taller, with long limbs that easily outmatch the boy that is nearly half his age.

“Please,” young William cries desperately, scrambling against Mycroft’s hold. “I can bring him back. I was trying to tell him-”

“So useless. He is dying and you are stuck within your ridiculous fantasy world,” Mycroft snarls over top of him. “Get some help-” Mycroft's eyes are beginning to become liquid but his words are venomous and his block is steadfast as he tries to wrestle the younger boy out the door. 

Mycroft catches sight of Redbeard out of the corner of his eye and he whirls around on the dog that is whimpering softly and licking their father's face. 

“Get away from him,” Mycroft roars, lunging towards the dog, who scurries away. Young William at last slips under Mycroft's hold, scrambles across the floor and touches his finger to his father's cheek.

The cold washes over him and the explosion of heat crackles across his fingertip with the same pop of electricity.

After precisely 5 minutes and 26 seconds dead, William Scott Holmes sits up, rubs at the back of his head and laughs.

“Must have slipped,” he says glancing between his two sons with a wry smile. His eyes fall on the shattered plant. “Oh, bloody hell, I took poor August out!” He moves over to the plant, gently lifting it. “Poor thing, just bloomed so beautifully and now you're uprooted. Quite a shock,” he coos soothingly to the candy-cane colored flower. He moves the flower to the workbench and begins preparing it for a new pot. 

Young William rests with his back against the workbench. His eyes are wide as he tracks his father working a little distance away, oblivious to the frenzied chaos and utter devastation that had seized his sons seconds earlier. Mycroft is staring at his younger brother with horror and wonder. When the young boy turns to him, something in Mycroft snaps and he is on young William, grabbing him by the lapels of his jumper and hauling him up.

“What did you do? What did you do to him? What was _that_?” He is shaking the dazed younger boy violently with eyes that are wide and manic. Something beyond his comprehension just occurred, something completely irrational, and that just does _not_ happen to the highly intelligent young man.

“I - I don't know. I-”

“Oi! Boys!” Elder William grabs Mycroft by the shoulder and pulls him back. Mycroft looks at his father like he is a ghost and instantly recoils from his touch. “I don't know what is going on between you lads, but you are _brothers._ Don't forget that.” He turns towards Mycroft. “I expect more from you, Mycroft. He’s your _little brother_ , young man. You should be looking out for him... You know it upsets your mother when you two fight.” Elder William stares sternly at Mycroft a few seconds until the oldest boy reluctantly nods. Then he smiles broadly and claps a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Right… Now, as for you-” he turns around and reaches out to push his youngest son’s hair out of his eyes and, with a pop of electricity, crumples to the ground. 

Precisely 52 seconds after being resurrected, William Scott Holmes dies for the second and _final_ time. And both Holmes boys learn, in the cruelest and most painful way possible, that young William’s gift comes with sacrifices and limitations. 

**First touch: life.  
Second touch: dead again. _Forever._**

Young William touches his father on the cheek again and again as his older brother screams himself hoarse ordering him to _fix it_ … but the life is gone. _Lost._

_Death does not suffer ignorant fools._

Young William will never tell his brother the most painful truth... that he had unknowingly exchanged the life of Redbeard for their father's. 

Whatever might be said about the universe, it soon became clear that Death is not so lazy for coincidence.

Deaths, it turns out, are transactional. It will be many years of careful experimentation before Sherlock understands that for any life restored for more than precisely 66 seconds, another must go in their place. The reason their father suddenly collapsed that day was because 66 seconds earlier the boy snatched Redbeard back from death's hold. 

However, there never is any hope of hiding the fact that his ignorance is responsible for their father's second death.

Before he grew too civilised for such things, Mycroft use to play upon his younger brother's vivid imagination by teasing him with the tale of the cold and bitter _East Wind_ ; a destructive force that scatters weak and delicate things and that lies waste to all the wicked. As Mycroft told it, _The Wind_ was always coming for Sherlock. 

_Coming to get him._

Be it because he is weak or wicked, that summer day in the greenhouse William Sherlock Scott Holmes knows _The East Wind_ has found him.

In the months to come, _The Wind_ erases all traces of beauty and warmth from the time _before_. His family scatters like flower petals beneath the invisible assailant. Young William is sent off to boarding school. Mycroft goes off to university. And his mother, who refuses to wallow in sentimentality or permit herself the weakness of grieving, moves on by quickly remarrying. 

_The Wind_ sweeps her mind clean of all that was from that time _before_ , including the little boy named _William Sherlock Scott Holmes._  


___________

The Semper Augusta Tulip never gets replanted. Shattered and uprooted in the little abandoned greenhouse at the edge of the Holmes estate, its once alluring petals of white, flamed with blood-red, wither. The once precious and adored beauty dies.

_____________

After his father's death, the boy with the improbable gift avoids social attachments. Alone is what he has and sentimentality and love are a dangerous weakness he cannot afford. He dare not risk discovery of his secret and it is not worth considering what he'd do if someone else he becomes attached to should die.

It's 19 years 9 weeks later. Heretofore known as _now._

The boy has grown to be a hard and cold man obsessed with mystery and murder. With great caution he employs his ability and intelligence as _the world's only consulting detective._

After all, murders are easier to solve when you can ask the _victim_ who did it.

No one calls him William, or Bill or Billy. He is _Sherlock Holmes._

Or, to the irritation of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, he is the _‘SH'_ at the end of the text message in the middle of his press conference that simply says _‘You're wrong!’_

A gift or a curse, his ability assures him a life of isolation, with _death_ as his only constant companion… that is until _John Watson_ changes everything.

____________________


	2. Pi2

Nothing ever happens to John Watson. Well, the truth is that _nothing happens,_ until _everything does_ and then what happens is something decidedly _not good_. 

His life is a long, boring run on sentence abruptly punctuated with horrific violence. John's character had been forged in this existence of extremes. He is a steady force; an unyielding constant, around which death and destruction have a nasty habit of breaking. 

The facts were this:

 _Nothing happens_ to John as an ordinary boy from a working-class family until, at the age of 10 years and 4 months old, his mum dies in a car crash and his dad disappears into any bottle of liquor he can get his hands on.

John trudges on, doing what he can to salvage their family; raising his younger sister and alternating between avoiding and being caretaker for his increasingly angry father.

 _Nothing happens_ to John in his unremarkable career as an army surgeon until, at the age of 29 years and 10 months old, he gets severely wounded in an ambush that kills most of his unit and destroys his career. 

John stoically marches on, coping with the physical and emotional scars of a shattered life and body. 

And so, it only stands to reason, invalidated home and going about an agonizingly boring civilian life, _nothing happens_ to him until the moment he wanders down the wrong alley in London and finds himself confronted with a mugger. 

“Hand everthin’ you has over or I’ll cut ya,” the thin and wild eyed man mutters. John can see the history of drug use in the hollow of the other man's cheeks, in the vicious hunger in his sunken, shifty eyes and the tremble in the hand holding a knife low and close to his own body.

 _Everything he has_ is what he’s managed to scrape together of his monthly pension. It is meant for a _different type_ of escape. Rather than some rabid junkie injecting it into his veins in pursuit of a temporary high, the meager savings in John's wallet is all his hopes for escaping his desolate bedsit for a new flat and a _new life_ in London.

A stubborn refusal to surrender to circumstances is one of John's greatest strengths and most damning flaws. So he drops his cane, squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. He is completely calm and dangerously still in contrast to his twitchy assailant. 

“Nope. Not from _there_ you won't _cut me_ ,” John says with a brash grin. “Here, let me help you.” John takes three steps forward. His eyes are steel and, in spite of his shorter stature, his posture makes him imposing. 

The mugger blinks rapidly and his eyes dart around for a moment before they fix on John again, blazing with fierce need.

“Alright, yer asking fer it,” he mutters, flashing his rotten teeth, and then he lunges forward. In one swift move John dodges the jab, grabs the wrist of the man's knife-wielding hand and slams it against a large metal bin. There is a satisfying crunch; at least three bones broken. The man twists into a snarling and whimpering mess. The knife clanks on the pavement and John gives it a swift kick away. Then he delivers a powerful uppercut punch to the would-be mugger’s chin. 

The attacker stumbles backwards and his head cracks against the dumpster as he falls back to the ground. He is knocked out cold. 

John leans down over him examining his head wound and carefully taking his pulse to confirm he has just incapacitated the man, not killed him.

He notices too late the sounds of quick footsteps approaching behind him. 

It feels like a punch; the sharp pressure in the small of his back. But then there is a warm flow of liquid over his skin. John whirls around to see the mugger’s accomplice grinning at him with a large bloody knife in his hand.

“What is ya life worth, suka?” the man growls in a raw, gravely voice that is heavy with a stilted accent.

Stumbling on his feet, John glares at the second man as he reaches his hand back to put pressure on the wound. His vision starts to go fuzzy nearly instantly and distantly he knows he has been stabbed in the abdominal aorta, a fatal cut by any standards. He is quickly bleeding out.

John staggers, grabs at a small bin for support and falls backwards, taking the bin over with him, spilling rubbish all over as he crashes to the earth. As he lies on the cold, wet pavement that is thirstily drinking up his blood, he stares up at the sky. His breaths come shallower and shallower until it is only a rasping, rattling and moaning sound. His last struggling breath pulls in the stench of the alley and the refuse littering it. His body grows cold and distant. He dimly sees the second mugger standing over him.

“Mu'dak,” he mutters. John feels him rifle through in his pockets, then the man spits down at him and is gone.

John doesn't think about the past. His life, such as it was, doesn't flash before his eyes. He thinks about the future - the one he never got to have. The one he always felt, deep within, was coming for him. The life of adventure, purpose and love that he had convinced himself was right around the corner if he just pushed on through the tedious and trying times. 

In the end he grieves for what _never was._ The last desperate thought that flits through John's mind as the world fades to black is, _‘Please, God, let me live.’_

Death comes as one last long exhalation.

At the age of 31 years, 18 days, 8 hours and 6 minutes old, in precisely fifty three seconds, John Watson bleeds to death.  
_____________

Later, upon recalling the events of that day, Sherlock will not be able to pinpoint what first drew his eyes to the shorter, broad shouldered man with the bronze hair. He will, however, recall how even at a distance, the man had ignited a bright fire of interest that buzzed along the back of his mind. 

The stranger certainly didn't belong in this part of the city. Sherlock quickly concluded he did not belong in London at all by the way he kept glancing, as if lost, from a phone in his hand to the street names and numbers posted on the buildings. He was, however, no sheep for the slaughter in this dangerous part of the city... and therein did lie the intrigue of the man.

He was clean cut and determined. The soft and casual nature of his ordinary clothes contrasted sharply with the edge of his military posture, haircut and gait. He leaned heavily on his cane, but seemed to forget it when he stopped to look around. Though apparently disabled, he moved with subtle competence and confidence. Sherlock got the distinct impression that, beyond the deceiving first appearances, this man was a danger for anyone that might dare to test him. Others seemed to sense it too, giving him a wide berth.

He didn't wear the common expression of disdain, fear, pity, disgust or even morbid fascination when he looked at the beggars, prostitutes and drug dealers that populated the street. He also didn't look away or try to avoid seeing them like most people would. His perceptive gaze appeared to notice everything. When his eyes met with those that were desperately hocking vice and sin to every other passerby, it was with a simple, non-judgemental expression that was oddly respectful of their dignity as actual human beings. It was nothing more or less than acknowledging that they existed. It was powerful in its own quiet way.

When he recalls it, Sherlock will remember with perfect detail the way the dreary light of the London street had made the man's hair glow golden and the way the mysterious man’s lips had quirked up in a soft smile at a child chasing a neighborhood dog across the street. He will remember how right before the man turned into the alley he glanced back and _almost_ saw Sherlock. 

But he will try his very best to delete all memory of the breathlessness and the tumbling sensation in his own stomach that the experience caused.

He will therefore attribute his need to follow the stranger into the alley to the mystery of the man’s subtle contradictions.

 _After all, Sherlock never could resist a good mystery._  
____________________

Sherlock rounds the corner to the alley cautiously. Below the scent of spoilt food and human waste he can detect the familiar, pungent tang of fresh death that never fails to turn his stomach.

He carefully scans the alley as he moves down it. His arms sweep around his body as he twists and turns, mentally recreating the scenario that occurred from the bits of data he is gathering. His feet move in a delicate dance so as not to disturb the evidence. 

He first comes to an abandoned cane; no doubt from the man he had seen disappear around the corner not fifteen minutes earlier. Next his eyes follow the scrape of footprints and disturbances in the patterns of rubbish to the glint of a knife barely visible where it came to rest against a metal can overflowing with rotten food.

Sherlock tiptoes up to the two bodies. The first is clearly the mugger. History of drug use is apparent in his clothes and skin. He is not dead but judging by the wound on his head he is likely to be unconscious for quite a while. His dominant hand is mangled, broken in several places, and he rests crumpled up against a dumpster. 

The mugger is, by all appearances, a typical drug user and no match for the other, _more interesting_ man sprawled across the ground not far from him. 

The intriguing stranger from the street has been dead for at least five minutes now, and even in his final sleep this soldier does not rest. Dull blue eyes look up at the sky between the buildings. Strong, thin lips are slightly parted as if he is about to comment on what he has found there. The color has barely faded from his warm brown skin now turned waxy as if he is unreal, made of plastic. There is a large puddle of dark burgundy on the ground beneath him and one hand clutches his wounded back. The other hand is cast out as if searching for a hand to hold that never came. He lies in the dirty alley next to a toppled, metallic bin, among the scattered trash. 

As Sherlock kneels down beside him, he feels an uncomfortable squeezing in his chest that he quickly pushes aside.

Sherlock takes a moment to study him. His clothes are well cared for, pressed with an iron and mended immediately with precise stitches. They are at least two years old and frugal purchases, meaning he is a man of limited funds and that he is keeping up appearances but hasn’t been investing in the future. There are small traces of shaving cream on his square jaw by his ear indicating he lives alone and is not currently in a relationship. 

With his black, leather gloved hand Sherlock gently takes the victim’s outstretched hand into his own. He turns it over, inspecting the gun calluses. He can tell immediately that this isn't the man's dominant hand, yet he can also see he frequently shoots with it. _Unusual._

He pushes back the sleeve around his wrist and confirms that the tan ends slightly above where his cuff falls. His initial assessment, that the man was a soldier, seems certain now. 

But there is something… _more._

He turns the man’s hand over again and inspects the finger tips. They show signs of careful maintenance of the nails and dryness from repeated washing with harsh antiseptic. _A doctor?_ He looks at the stitching on the pocket of the shirt again and realizes they are a surgical stitching pattern. He glances up at the soldier's face. 

_Army surgeon. Intriguing._

He examines the fatal wound, estimating the size of the knife by the size and apparent depth of the puncture. It is clear by its location and the amount of blood pooled beneath him why the man died so quickly. 

Sherlock lets out a slow breath. Logically he knows he would not have been able to save the man by normal means even if he had come into the alley just after it happened. This should comfort him but the icy cold sinking sensation in his stomach deepens.

As the detective peels off one glove he considers carefully where he should touch this man to bring him back to life. He doesn't usually put much thought into such things but he is oddly nervous about this man. He can't put his finger on the reason, so he attributes it to the fact that this is a highly competent ex-soldier that is likely to wake in an intense state. 

People tend to be stuck in the moment of their death when they are reanimated. They wake not aware that any time has passed since that last breath. Though they never appear to be in pain, if their death was violent they can be quite dangerous. 

Sherlock moves back a little and brushes his bare fingertip across the palm of that outstretched hand.

_The cold._  
The surge of heat.  
The pop of electricity. 

____________________________

When John later recalls this moment he will remember the day as warmer than it actually was, that the sunlight in the alleyway was brighter and he will swear that above the smell of rubbish there was a subtle breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers. 

However, he will remember with perfect detail the exact shade of green-blue of the man’s curious and fiercely intelligent eyes, how the chocolate brown curls strayed across his pale forehead, the way his lips were parted in a gasp of surprise and the warm thrill that shot through his body with the lingering impression of a brush of fingertips across his palm. 

He will remember that, looking up into the other man’s eyes, even as he lay there among the refuse in a puddle of his own blood, he was certain for the first time in a very long time that everything was simply _brilliant_...  
___________________________

Sherlock can't restrain the gasp as his mind sputters to a halt beneath soft, blue eyes, the color of the sea on a calm day, focusing in on him. The fierce strength and open curiosity in the now reanimated man is immediately apparent. 

The ex-soldier’s lips turn up in a shy smile, radiating kindness and warmth as if Sherlock is an old friend the soldier is happy to see again. It is so contrary to what Sherlock expects and it stirs something deep inside the detective that he had thought long dead.

“Oh, hi there. Who are you, then?” The soldier says softly as he runs his eyes over the man crouching before him. 

For vital seconds Sherlock just blinks at him, caught up in that calm warmth and unexpected presence radiating from the man lying on the pavement. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says slowly, and he feels an inexplicable heat work its way from his chest up towards his cheeks. The soldier tilts his head and his smile grows. 

“Sherlock,” he repeats carefully as if the word is as precious as it is unusual. Then his face fixes in determination and his voice takes on an air of authority.

“Right, Sherlock. I'm John. John Watson, and I…” he closes his eyes and furrows his brow a second. When he opens them again they are full of wonder and relief. “I - I feel surprisingly good, actually, for a man that was stabbed in the abdominal aorta...” Sherlock's eyebrows lift as he mentally slides his deduction about this man's medical expertise into the _confirmed_ category. He watches John twist to touch the site of his fatal wound with a puzzled expression. 

“Don't move,” Sherlock barks automatically. “Crime scene.”

“Right,” John responds, immediately complying with the order and going still. His eyes sharpen, glancing around the alley to assess for danger. When his gaze comes to rest back on Sherlock it is searching for answers. This look makes an ache curl through Sherlock's chest because the answers are not ones that he enjoys sharing. He takes a deep breath and remembers himself. Glancing at his watch, he plunges in.

“About that, John,” Sherlock winces. He purposely never uses their first name in order to keep it as professional and impersonal as possible. But this man has been so calm and personable with him, a completely foreign experience, the detective finds it easy to reciprocate with this level of familiarity in their conversation. “You did not survive the attack, John. You are, in fact, _dead_.”

“Oh,” John says softly, his face crumpling and a light going out in the depths of his eyes. Sherlock feels his stomach twist in a knot. He keeps talking to try to overpower the odd emotions trying to seize him. 

“You were stabbed by a nine inch knife with a serrated blade. It did, in fact, puncture you just below the kidneys and next to the spine slicing through your abdominal aorta. You bled out within seconds.”

John's eyes show a small glimmer of warm light as he tilts his head and looks Sherlock over. “I suppose that makes you… _an angel?_ ” 

Sherlock can't help the snort that escapes him at the preposterous idea. John's lips curl into a soft grin at seeing the other man laugh, but his eyes remain confused.

“No, John. _Not_ an angel. What I am is the man that can solve your murder. A detective. But I need your help and speed is paramount. We only have one minute.” 

An expression of disappointment briefly flickers across John's face before his jaw tightens, his eyes harden with determination and he gives a tight nod. 

“What can I do?”

“Well, here is what I know. You are John Watson, a former army surgeon recently invalidated home from… Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinks, recovering quickly. “Afghanistan.”

“Yes. Injured and traumatized in combat in Afghanistan. Currently seeking employment and a new flat share in London. Stabbed in an apparent robbery attempt. Two assailants. One of which you neutralized, the other which, by luck or knowledge of human anatomy, killed you by stabbing you while you were hunched over the first assailant, likely checking his vitals in spite of the fact that he had threatened your life and tried to steal your rather meager possessions.” 

Sherlock draws back. He'd gone a bit further than he intended there, caught up in the avid fascination and open admiration in the soldier's eyes. He now expects the common defensiveness or anger from the victim at being so bluntly exposed. That saying about _‘no longer being embarrassed once you are dead’_ has not proven true in Sherlock's experience. 

“Brilliant,” John breathes. He smiles and nods his head in agreement, his awed expression encouraging Sherlock to continue. Sherlock feels that warmth creep from his chest to his face again and he clears his throat. 

“What I do _not_ know, John, is what the second assailant looks like. Your accurate description can help me ensure his capture, John.” John nods again. 

“Tall. About your height, but heavier build. Scar by his right ear down to his chin that is at least five years old and took at least ten stitches. Repaired by a professional when it happened. A tattoo of a snake coiled around his wrist and up his left forearm. Distinctive voice. Heavy smoker. Foreign accent. I’d say Russian, at a guess.” 

Sherlock blinks at the soldier. He was surprisingly observant for a man that only glanced his assailant for seconds as he was dying.

“That should be… sufficient.” Sherlock says slowly, his stomach roiling as he knows what must come next. “Thank you, John,” he says softly and finds he can't help the note of sadness in his tone.

“No, _thank you,_ Sherlock. I know you'll get that bastard and make him pay.” John's eyes are fierce and full of complete confidence in the ability of this man he has just met. Sherlock swallows roughly. 

John's eyes shift to the sky between the two buildings and he takes a deep breath. Sherlock watches his strong chest rise and fall.

“So, what next?” John asks, and his eyes have become clouded as they cut sideways to Sherlock's face. Sherlock glances at his watch. Eighteen seconds left.

“I touch you and you return to being _dead_ , John.” Sherlock holds up his bare hand, feeling the ice in his veins. He doesn't ever explain. He wakes them, gets them to talk (with varying levels of success), then returns them before things get too _messy_. 

“Have to?” the soldier inquires, trying to sound hopeful, even as his eyes reveal that he knows the response. “Frankly I've had a bloody awful day and could use a pint-"

“Or _two_.” Sherlock can't stop himself from interjecting his morbid wit as he stares down as John's pints of blood coloring the pavement. His eyes slide to meet John's and he winces at his own insensitivity.

“Not good?” John looks stuck between two emotions for a second, then he bursts out laughing and suddenly they are both snickering with the perverse humour of their odd situation.

“Christ, that was...” John sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah… Probably shouldn't be giggling at-” He glances around again “At a crime scenes.” His smile fades and he sobers as he looks at the rubbish scattered around him. “Guess this is _my_ crime scene,” he says shaking his head back and forth as if disappointed with his end. His eyes meet Sherlock's again and his jaw tightens. He gives a sharp nod and it’s the solemn acceptance of a soldier marching to his certain death. 

“It's been a pleasure, Sherlock, and-” John shifts uncomfortably. His eyes dart to Sherlock’s mouth, then he raises them slowly to meet Sherlock's gaze again. “Can I ask a favor, Sherlock,” John says softly and his tongue swipes nervously over his lips as he watches the detective carefully. 

Sherlock does a small nod. Frankly the flailing about and denial of the reality of their situation by victims makes it rare that they ever have the time to get to this point. On any occasion when the victim has been efficient enough in responses to reach the point of a few spare seconds, he has erred on the side of caution and restored them to their deceased state as quickly as possible. He has determinedly tried to avoid _this part._ Last requests are _intimate_. It makes it hard to detach and compartmentalize what he has to do next. 

However, in the seconds since John Watson has awoken Sherlock has had an odd jumble of unique and deeply stirring experiences that have left him feeling more connected to another being than he has in the previous nineteen years. He finds he does not want to send _this man_ back quite so quickly and he is curious to know what the surprisingly intriguing ex-army surgeon would care to spend his last request on.

“Kiss me,” John says softly.

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath, his eyes going wide in shock. John begins talking quickly, nervously.

“Listen, I know it is a lot to ask, and I'm sorry, because I can't even imagine... from your perspective... when you might not even like…” John pauses, unable to choose an appropriate way to finish that sentence that encompasses everything he knows is wrong about his request. There is absolutely no reason for the brilliant, gorgeous detective to kiss a man he met a few seconds earlier and that is essentially a living corpse. He might not even like men, there is no reason to believe he would. Yet John finds he can't help pressing on. He has so little to lose now. That life he always thought was coming to him is clearly not to be, but the man before him is radiant, beautiful and magical… he will gladly give his last moment to bask in that; Sherlock’s air as a last breath and his lips as that last touch.

Sherlock is just gaping at him with wide eyes and his mouth half open.

“I am just being selfish here,” John continues, convinced he has horribly misstepped but urgently needing to try. “Being completely selfish for once in my bloody life… or _death,_ such as it is,” John says offering a self-deprecating smile. 

Sherlock only blinks rapidly. 

“Last time I died here, alone, among the rubbish and filth with the bastard that killed me spitting on me as my last memory… Then there was you… And I … … I have you... here... and… if this is my last experience on earth-" 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts having pushed aside the shock at last to weigh the risks against the benefits. 

He reasons that, as intimate relations go, the risk of emotional entanglement is as close to non-existent as one can get. Once he has claimed this fatal kiss John will be gone forever, precluding any opportunity for further emotional vulnerability. 

It is a perilous venture, but he finds himself eager to take the calculated risk. Desire and curiosity are gnawing at him with a fierceness that is a startling contrast to the cold numbness he has settled into in his daily life. 

What might it be like to kiss a man like John Watson? Brave, capable, and calm even as he thinks himself dying. A doctor and soldier that is kind, warm and unexpectedly intelligent.

 _There are no men like John Watson._ None that Sherlock has met, anyhow.

He will be John Watson’s last kiss, and John Watson will also be, as far as Sherlock is concerned, the detective’s _only kiss_. Never before and never again does Sherlock intend to be this exposed. Only because it is this unique man and only because it is only a moment; a snapshot he can lock away and bring out to warm himself when the world becomes too dark and cold. 

“Yeah?” John breathes. He looks shocked and awestruck as his eyes flash with a vibrant heat and a warm smile blooms across his face. 

That expression erases any lingering apprehension for Sherlock. 

“I must leave you as I found you, though, so…” Sherlock moves to straddle the ex-soldier’s prone body feeling the excitement and desire washing over him. 

He plants his hands on either side of John’s head, leaning over him. John's hands reach up into his coat and chills shoot through the detective’s body as through the thin fabric of his shirt he feels the ex-soldier’s arms twine around him. John draws him down so their bodies are nearly flush. 

Sherlock’s heart is beating erratically against his chest. He has never let himself be this close to anyone and it is intoxicating. He can feel the ex-soldier’s heat, the breath filling his chest, the heavy thud of his pulse, the strength of his body. Strange new sensations are singing through Sherlock’s blood and over his skin and he struggles to hold on to rational thought. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” John whispers, his voice low and rumbling in the intimate space. It sends a shiver through Sherlock and opens up an old and ugly wound that tastes of longing.

John is watching him so closely, drinking in his every expression like a thirsty plant reaching towards the sun. He seems determined not to miss a second of this, his final experience, and Sherlock can't look away from that intense stare, so their eyes remain locked to each other. 

As he moves closer he watches the ex-soldier's pupils dilate; his body revealing genuine attraction. Something painful is stirring in Sherlock's chest, awakening, tangling through his hollows and expanding. It is powerful and terrifying. It has a sharp edge of inevitable loss. Sherlock closes his eyes, to shut that truth out. He slowly closes the last bit of distance between them while focusing in on the brief touch that will last less than a second. 

The detective goes as far as he can go, then he stops, mere centimeters away. He cannot make himself go any further. He silently wills John to take that last step; to fall upon his sword by leaning up into him and stealing that fatal kiss.

That's when he hears the footsteps. 

“You like em stiff, no?” The gravelly voice calls from the end of the alley.

“Christ, that's him... bastard that killed me,” John breathes. His hands instinctively tighten around Sherlock’s body protectively.

“Right,” John says in that calm, determined tone. Sherlock can feel his muscles tense and he knows John is about to flip them. The soldier plans to roll on top of Sherlock and shield him, taking whatever attack the murderer is about to launch at them to his own back. 

“Wait,” Sherlock commands. John does. Anxious eyes search Sherlock’s face as the footsteps come closer. 

“What are we doing?”John whispers urgently.

“Playing the odds,” Sherlock breathes. He carefully turns his wrist inward so he can see his watch.

“Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyad,” the Russian mugger spits. 

_5… 4… 3… 2..._

He closes his eyes and hangs his head slightly as he listens to the approaching footsteps abruptly end in a thud of flesh hitting pavement. The cold fingers wrap around his heart chasing away the warmth of the man beneath. 

_His ability has made him a killer once again._

“What’s happening, Sherlock?”

He lifts his head and looks John in the eyes. _Feelings._ The bloody feelings he so despises are suffocating him. 

He should touch John now; send him back and try to set things as right as possible… Yet... the minute has passed. The price has been paid; John's life for the Russian muggers. 

While the wrongness of the detective being the dealer of such fates slides under his skin like a thick, suffocating oil, he can't feel regret for the bargain he has made. 

He feels something dangerous blooming inside him; _hope._

Things he hadn't been aware were missing are suddenly apparent by how easily the voids are being filled by John's presence. It is confusing and thrilling. Reckless, insane, and most certainly dangerous... but while staring in those bold, blue eyes of the ex-soldier Sherlock dares to hope he can keep this exciting, fragile _something_ a little while longer. 

John Watson makes him feel… _alive._

“What if you could… _not_ be dead, John,” Sherlock says cautiously.

“Well, yeah… that _would_ be preferable,” John says with a playful smirk. His eyes are searching and the slightest bit hopeful. 

Sherlock feels his heart spasm and suddenly they are too close. He sits up on his knees and takes his leather glove from his pocket to pull it back on his hand. Then he moves off of John and extends one gloved hand down. 

John allows himself to be pulled to his feet and for a long moment they just stand there, too close, staring at each other. Exhilarating heat and energy crackles in the air between them. 

“I thought you had to-"

“Circumstances changed,” Sherlock says bluntly, taking a step back. He briskly turns to the corpse of the Russian mugger. He notes how accurately John had described him from his scar to the placement of his tatoo. Remarkably observant. He rummages through the man's pockets, careful to arrange everything back as it was. 

“That’s...”

“Your killer,” Sherlock tosses John's wallet back to him. John catches it and turns it over in his hands before shoving it in his pocket.

“And he’s...”

“Dead,” Sherlock examines the phone he retrieves from the muggers pocket briefly then slips it in his own coat.

“But how-" John is staring at Sherlock like he is some kind of superhero and a thrill shoots through the detective. No one looks at him like _that;_ with wonder, admiration and excitement. Even DI Lestrade mostly looks at him like he is some sort of slightly disturbing aberration of the natural universe. 

It's everything he wishes he could believe about himself. It is the enchantment and astonishment of that moment when he stared down at the blood tinged daisy petal in his hand and knew he had done something wholly miraculous and unquestionably _good_ by restoring something beautiful to the world. He feels the magnetism of the ex-soldier's open fascination. 

“Come along, John,” Sherlock says and can't stop the smile that pulls at his lips. He looks both ways down the alley then takes a running jump to snag the slide down fire escape ladder on the side of the building. He pulls it all the way down, and climbs on, glancing at John. “Best not to hang around to have to explain this.”

“Right,” John says glancing around. He gives a disbelieving laugh at the scene that was to be his final resting place. 

“I imagine you are going to explain this all to me at some point,” John says quickly following Sherlock as they climb the winding metal staircase to the roof. Sherlock waits until John joins him at the top. The ex-soldier is looking around at London stretched out below them with eyes full of naked awe.

“I imagine so,” Sherlock says. His hands are carefully clasped behind his back as he leans close. The right corner of his mouth pulls up in a devilishly provocative smile and there is a challenge in his eyes. John’s lips draw up in response. His eyes roaming over Sherlock's face with intrigue, he straightens his spine and his chest puffs out in answer. 

Sherlock turns and takes off running, leaping the small gap between the roofs. He doesn’t stop running as hard as he can; he jumps and weaves his way across London, never doubting that his new companion is close behind him.


	3. The Best Condition or Degree (Pink): Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of John’s murder deepens, tension runs high and enemies close in as the consulting detective and the ex-soldier are drawn into the case of apparent serial suicides.

> At this very moment in an abandoned house in Brixton a woman wearing a pink overcoat and pink high-heeled shoes is slowly reaching down to take a glass of wine off the bare floorboards. Her hand trembles as she gazes at the rippling dark, red fluid within. She slowly lifts it to her mouth and the red liquid slips through her pink lips. 
> 
> At precisely 35 years, 42 weeks, 5 days, 3 hours and 26 minutes old, the woman in pink collapses and dies.

___________________________________

It starts small; a quiet whisper of heat along Sherlock’s spine curling up into his chest where it ignites; phosphorous, burning hot and bright. Warmth radiates through him, each breath pulling in the sun itself. It suffuses his whole body leaving a tingling in all his limbs; a satisfying burn of exertion and an almost dizzying sensation of soaring. The fabric of his coat snaps against his legs like folded wings longing to be spread.

He cannot feel his limbs moving; it’s instinctive, as natural as breathing. His mind whirs, nimbly mapping their path through the city, and his body simply executes; dashing across rooftops, leaping walls, then turning to descend a twisting metal stairwell; _down, down, down_ to the world below. 

The people bustling about their humdrum lives, with sallow faces and heavy souls, barely flicker across his awareness as he weaves and dodges down the street. They are mere shadows, flitting in and out of existence as a backdrop to the vibrant burst of pure light that is _this moment_. He knows them like he knows himself. They are a fixture of _his city_ , which is an apotheosis of extremes; harsh and cold surfaces and dark, sensual, unexplored depths. Now he is a powerful drug racing through London’s veins; jolting its quivering heart into a new rhythm. Startling it from its grim, monotonous reality with a splash of yellow interjected into its taupe and gray landscape.

John’s feet pound just behind him in time with his own. His labored breaths, lost in the wind whipping around their bodies, are surely pulling in the same incendiary air as fills his own lungs to bursting. The thrill of it hums through his body and coalesces into something effervescent, threatening to bubble over. He wants to crisscross the entire sprawling city of London; never slowing, endlessly chasing this high that buzzes across his skin and electrifies his body.

“Why… are we…. _still_ … running?” John’s words are broken by panting breath as his voice reaches out from behind Sherlock, pulling at him. The absence of footsteps is as startling as one’s own heart suddenly failing to beat its required rhythm. Sherlock halts, quickly turning and seeking John. 

John’s face beams at him; an incandescent grin and eyes shining with delight. He is hunched over, hands on knees, face turned upward. His strong shoulders shake as he falls back against the wall of the nearby building, his breath turning into huffs of laughter. His head tilts back and his hand rests lightly on his chest, feeling his own heart hammering against his ribcage. The rapid pulse throbs in the column of his muscular neck. A drop of sweat caresses slowly from his temple over his cheek before plunging off the hard edge of his jaw. 

Sherlock’s legs object to the change in pace; muscles twitch along the top of his thighs, urging him to go faster, as he slowly strides back to John. The rough brick stings through his coat as he flops back against the wall beside the ex-soldier, trying to focus.

A thousand emotions wind and whirl trails around his head in an exquisite dance, unleashed by that one touch that changed everything. 

Itchy fingers work his suit jacket button open as he looks both ways down the street. He bows his head, pushes his lower jaw forward and lets out a long breath, gusting over his face and ruffling his fringe that clings damply to his forehead and temples. 

John’s breathing beside him is an anchor. The world starts to slow again. The hard edges begin to form around his expansive mind; gathering it back in and boxing it up within the more familiar, carefully constructed confines of logic.

“Could be followed. Best not to risk it,” The shrug is lopsided, an awkward attempt at casualness that brings him centimeters closer to John.

The ex-soldier is flushed a lovely shade of pink from his chest to his cheeks, making his sharp blue eyes darker. A grin is etched into his face, and his tongue swipes over his flushed lips. 

Sherlock’s chest expands with a warm pressure. He swallows and leans his head back, the rough brick catching against his hair. “Besides… walking is _boring_.”

He tips his head and slides his eyes to meet John's, keeping his face impassive as he waits for a reaction. 

_One heartbeat... Two... Three._

John bursts into a giddy, breathless giggle. It tickles through Sherlock’s insides, untethering little bubbles of laughter that burst, rumbling in his chest. He relaxes against the wall. 

Their gaze meets again. John's face is inconceivably open. His eyes crinkle at the corners and dance with an inner light. There is something else within their depths, challenging and sharp with want. 

_Hunger?_

Sherlock’s eyes drop briefly to his companion’s stomach, then snap back up to his face with a small, calculating smile.

 _Of course._

“Come on, John.” Sherlock pushes off the wall and strides down the street at a brisk walk. John naturally falls into a synchronized march beside him. His presence instills the confidence of being part of an invading army.

“Who might be following us?” John glances back the way they've come.

“Whomever you’ve disappointed by surviving.” 

“Right…” 

The tip of John's head is quizzical. His smile evaporates into a set jaw and knitted brow full of cautious concern. He is obviously trying to work out why anyone but the two would-be-muggers (who are no risk of following them _now_ ) would care to be disappointed by his miraculous escape.

The harsh edge of reality is crowding in again. The world is off kilter. Irrelevant things whirl distractingly in the corners of Sherlock’s mind. Sensory memories of the alley still replay faintly across his skin. Observations about John spin in a click clack of malfunctioning gears, losing time with the rest of the machinery. The ex-soldier's questioning gaze clings to him, raising hairs on the back of his neck. 

He presses the palms of his hands flat together under his chin. The force meeting equal force is comforting; a balance he can maintain and center himself around. He brushes the fingertips against his mouth. The cold, smooth, leather gloves against his burning lips is grounding until the smell of John’s skin, still on his gloves from his examination, drifts up and tangles through his brain. The taste of leather mixed with sun kissed and battle hardened skin lingers on his lips. He grimaces, pulling his hands away quickly. He takes a deep breath and pushes all the messy things into a corner, collecting them and boxing them away. 

“No one can know you’re alive.” It spills out of his mouth without intention; a conclusion that emerges and bypasses his usual filters. Sherlock glances over at John, then briskly cuts down an alley, wishing he could leave those misspoken words behind. 

They emerge on a busier street, and the familiarity settles around him like a warm coat, relaxing his body a little. John glances around at the people they are passing and then cocks one eyebrow at Sherlock questioningly. 

“I mean alive _again_ , John.” Sherlock gestures dismissively, as if it should be obvious, hoping to obfuscate the more apparent truth. A chill is creeping into his body. He glances up at the CCTV camera on the nearby building. It is tracking their progress. They have to get off the street.

“I have reason to believe that you were _not_ the unfortunate victim of a mugging gone bad. You were, in fact, _targeted._ You were never intended to leave that alley alive. They expect that they have succeeded. We cannot risk making them aware that they have not achieved their objective before we have a chance to unravel their plot.” 

John's eyes widen and then narrow as his posture shifts to military attentiveness. “Someone wants to kill me... Who?” 

Sherlock’s eyes slide sideways to John and he stops, opening the door to the building for him. John glances up and reads the sign, _‘Angelo’s’_ , before stepping into the dimly lit restaurant. His stomach makes a loud grumble as they are immediately engulfed in the delicious smell of pasta, rich sauces and spices.

“That _is_ what we intend to find out, John.” Sherlock moves to stand beside him; a careful distance between them and his hands clasped behind his back. 

“It is safe here. They know me.” 

“Sherlock!” The familiar booming and jovial shout disrupts the quiet of the restaurant. Angelo appears in the doorway of the kitchen and rushes towards Sherlock with his arms open wide. Sherlock recoils slightly from the impending embrace. His strange ability necessitates that physical contact be strictly managed and avoided. He is surprised when John, perhaps out of protective instinct, steps in front of him to head Angelo off.

“Angelo.” Sherlock's smile feels stretched too tight across his face. He slides sideways; away from the approaching man and into the restaurant. 

“Oh, and who is this?” Angelo’s meaty hand claps on John's shoulder. John's eyes narrow on his face with an edge of vigilance and warning. It is the same capacity to be dangerous that made people give him space on the street. Angelo appears oblivious. “You have a date!” He smiles broadly as he herds John after Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s stomach drops and a jolt of alarm shoots through his system but his body keeps moving. He swallows the sudden urge to snap at Angelo and instead ignores this awkward assumption, hoping John will do the same. He sweeps his eyes over John in passing, seeing that the ex-soldier's eyes have grown wide.

“Date?” John’s tone has a breathiness as he glances back and forth between the two men. 

Sherlock feels his insides turn cold. He tries to crowd it out by taking in data about the people around them. 

John's eyes probe at Sherlock and his expression shifts to concern, brow furrowing. “I don't think I'm his-”

“Anything on the menu, Sherlock.” Angelo’s voice drowns out John's weak objections. “No charge. Always, for you. You _and_ your date.” 

They are sliding into Sherlock’s preferred booth now; the one that allows him to watch the entire restaurant and look out on the street. Sherlock pulls off his gloves, scarf and coat, placing them carefully in the space between him and John.

“This is Angelo, John.” Sherlock glances at Angelo who is wearing a ridiculous, wide grin aimed at John. Sherlock glances over at John. The ex-soldier's face is flushed and drawn tense, his expression a mixture between embarrassment, confusion and uncertainty. Sherlock pushes the menu towards him. “You’re hungry. You should eat.” Sherlock scans the people scurrying by outside the window for any sign of threat, the anxiety is a low hum at the base of his skull.

 _They are coming. Vultures circling; just waiting for weakness._

Angelo moves around the table to stand behind Sherlock and his large hand thumping down on his shoulder is startling. The detective's body stiffens against the unnatural physical contact.

“This man-” Angelo gives the shoulder a squeeze. “Got me off a murder charge. Cleared my name.” His chin tips up and he beams with pride, like a meddling relative eager to convince John of Sherlock's finer qualities. 

Sherlock’s insides prickle. He looks from Angelo to John quickly as a disconcerting heat fills his chest. “Cleared it a bit.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I was able to prove that at the time of a particularly vicious double murder Angelo was on the other side of town committing a completely different crime.” Sherlock tries to angle his body away from John, but Angelo’s grip holds him in place. He glares up at Angelo, fixing his face in his coldest expression. It usually makes people scatter like cockroaches in the light but Angelo ignores him, leaning towards John and dropping his voice.

“But for him, I would have gone to prison.” Angelo smiles broadly at John, lifting his eyebrows. “He does that for people.”

_Oh, god. Do make it stop!_

Sherlock's stomach does a barrel roll. This is absurd. It is a gross mischaracterization. Sherlock Holmes is not some _bleeding heart_ , dashing about and saving _everyone._

“He still went to prison.” The stinging heat climbs from Sherlock’s chest to his face. His skin crawls with fire ants and he is sweating more than when they were running. At least then there was the cool breeze rather than the heavy, cloying atmosphere of the restaurant. 

John is leaning forward to listen to Angelo with an absurd amount of avidity. His lips are curled in mild amusement and there is a glint in his eyes. He is obviously enjoying Sherlock's embarrassment far too much.

“Oh, no, this man-” Angelo straightens and throws his entire arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. Suddenly, Sherlock is ridiculously small; a child crumpled under the weight of Angelo’s arm as the large man pulls him uncomfortably close, tucking him into his armpit. He smells heavily of spices, Italian Bergamot and men's deodorant.

“How about some wine?” John mercifully interrupts. He has put on a soft and patient smile for Angelo, but his eyes flick to Sherlock with apprehension.

“Ah, yes! Right away.” Angelo’s grins in satisfaction at John as he finally relinquishes his hold on Sherlock. “And I’ll bring you a candle for the table. More romantic.” Angelo scurries away, quite quickly for such a heavy set man.

“No, I don't think-" John’s voice drifts off as he stares after the man's retreating back. He tucks his lips over his teeth in a quick, poorly disguised grimace and then glances nervously at Sherlock. That soft concern has taken over his sapphire eyes. His bearing has shifted to a cautious measuring of Sherlock’s reaction.

Sherlock swallows and looks out the window in a futile attempt to appear impervious to the tension now thickening between them. 

“I just thought... wine…” John takes a deep breath and shrugs. He twines his hands in front of himself on the table, hunching a little as he stares down at them. “You know, in lieu of _pints_.” His words are slow, as his mouth stretches around them in an absurdly exaggerated way. He gazes up with a crooked smile. They stare at each other a moment then just as suddenly as it grew the tension snaps and is broken. They both burst into light laugher.

“So...” John softly raps his knuckles against the table like a gambler calling the bid. “About that explanation.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “What _exactly_ is it that you do, Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock regards the ex-soldier warily as he rubs his fingers over his own neck. The gentle caress calms his nerves, but the way John’s eyes closely follow the motion makes him quickly pull his hand away; flustered with the unprecedented attention. People stare at him from time to time, but this feels _different._

“I told you, John, I am a detective.”

“Not like any detective I've ever known,” John sits back and runs his eyes over Sherlock with his eyebrows lifted in an expression of open curiosity.

“ _Consulting Detective_. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” Sherlock keeps his reply short and neutral as his gaze flicks away to monitor the pattern of traffic in the street. His body bristles in anticipation of the usual cutting remarks.

“Hmmm… one of a kind.” John grins, raising a brow. His stare is warm and unwavering. 

Sherlock reminds himself to breathe again after spontaneously forgetting how for a moment. John’s unexpected reactions are disorientating. 

“So, what exactly does a _Consulting Detective_ do?” 

“When the police are out of their depth, _which is always_ , they call me to solve the crime.”

“And you...” John makes a purposeful touch of his fingertip to the table and makes a popping sound with his lips. The doctor's expression isn't critical or alarmed. It is avid fascination; uncensored intrigue as if Sherlock is some enigma to unravel.

Confusion twines its way around the many whirling gears of Sherlock’s mind and everything slowly grinds to a halt. His entire vision is filled with those thoughtfully pursed lips, a simulation of their earlier almost-kiss. Breathing is suddenly very difficult. His insides go cold and his cheeks turn too warm. He swallows and focuses on John’s fingers instead. 

John's imitation of his life-restoring and yet deadly touch is a trenchant reminder of the reality that binds him. It is sobering. 

“On occasion... it proves a useful tool.” Sherlock turns away. He is suddenly itchy in his own skin. He lifts his head and stiffens his posture, trying to brush off the pull of those inviting eyes and that engaging smile. 

“And the other thing - how you knew so much about me - is that another… _ability_? Reading minds or something?”

“No. A _skill._ ” Sherlock’s voice snaps harshly on the words and he closes his eyes a second longer on his blink to bring himself back under control. “I simply observe.”

“Observe.” John narrows his eyes skeptically. 

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes heavenward. Might as well get it over with. Time to extinguish that false idealism burning brightly in John’s eyes. 

All the facts come into sharp focus and attach themselves to the relevant points of John. He plucks at them, one-by-one, rapidly firing off the observations.

“I read your military career in your haircut, posture and gait.” Sherlock gestures sharply at each. “Confirmed it in the way you made quick work of the first assailant, in spite of being unarmed, your gun callouses, and your tan - faded a bit but obvious in the difference of skin tone on face and hands in comparison to above the wrist. So, a soldier then. Served overseas. Somewhere with a lot of sun. However, not just a soldier… State of your hands, chapped from repeated washing but carefully cared for nails. Then there are the stitches on your pocket, clearly a lock-stitch suture technique. Surgeon then. Army surgeon. Confirmed that when you appropriately diagnosed your fatal injury. Obviously, by the limp, injured while in service… So… Where might an army doctor get injured serving overseas these days? Afghanistan or Iraq.” Sherlock lets the sound of the last sharp _‘k’_ cut like a whip being snapped in the air. He stares at John with a cool air of defiance in his eyes. 

John just gapes at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open; completely enthralled. 

Sherlock’s insides tumble with this new and unnerving experience. He blanks his face and quickly looks away.

“That's… _brilliant._ ” John’s voice is hardly more than breath. Sherlock cuts his eyes back to John and his natural defensiveness crumbles at the soft look of wonder on the army doctor's face. It is so searingly bright and warm that his skin prickles with the sunburn.

“Do you really think so?” Those appallingly weak and wanting words spill out of Sherlock before he can stop them. All that vulnerability he locks away has just been exposed. His skin is glass and John can surely see right through him into all the dark, twisted and pathetic places he tries desperately to hide. Sherlock holds his breath, waiting to be shattered.

“Yes. That was… _amazing._ ” John’s eyes are wide and sparkling and he is leaning forward with an expression that is a spectacular mix of mystified, reverent and mildly amused. “Really… quite… _extraordinary._ ” John’s lips curl at the corners in a small, museful smile. It is dazzling in its sincere warmth. 

Sherlock blinks repeatedly, startled by the power of that smile to make him feel just a little bit more... _human._

Angelo returns long enough to slide a lit candle, a basket of bread and a bottle of wine onto the table. John smiles at Angelo and nods in agreement when he offers the special for the night: a rigatoni. 

It is enough of a disruption. Sherlock resets his internal defenses and pulls back into himself, closing himself off to this unprecedented intrusion. 

“Nothing for me, thanks.” Sherlock flicks a dismissive hand, quickly turning away and shutting out the look of disappointment on Angelo’s face. He is grateful when his long-time acquaintance just glances at John and retreats without argument. 

John waits until Angelo walks away to lean forward, closing the distance between them across the table. “You're not going to eat?” The candlelight flickers softly in John’s eyes. There are mysterious shadows in those deep, blue depths enticing Sherlock to delve in and explore. 

He never could resist a good mystery.

He swallows it down, sets his jaw and looks away again. He can’t seem to get his feet under himself. There is a jittery feeling in his abdomen, his palms are sweating and a current of electricity seems to be zipping through his body. 

“I don't eat when I am on a case. Digesting slows me down.” Sherlock turns further towards the window, running his eyes over the people scurrying down the darkening street. He struggles to focus on what _must be_ coming. This is not the time for feeling out of focus and untethered. He needs a strategy to get them both through this. 

Sherlock is doing his best to set a chill in everything about his demeanor. However, the intimacy of the atmosphere and John’s warm attention are weaving together and slinking beneath his skin. It irritates him that he can't shut it out. John’s physical presence is pressing in on him insistently. He reluctantly drags his eyes back to the man across the table.

The light of the setting sun illuminates the windows of the building behind John, turning them to blazing sheets of gold. The haze of warm light catches in John’s hair, mixing with the flickering candlelight and igniting that phosphorous burn in the center of Sherlock’s chest again.

“Hmmm… well, not at all complaining here because… _well_...” John rubs at the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing that lovely shade of soft pink. The candlelight slinks over his skin, casting it further into shades of warm yellow and orange. He shifts and reaches for a roll from the center of the table, pulls off a bite, pops it in his mouth and chews it before he continues. 

“You felt like you could put on at least half a stone.” John’s expression is unreadable, as if he'd just commented on the weather rather than the feel of Sherlock's body in his arms. Such casualness concerning intimacy is jarring to Sherlock. 

John watches him for a moment, then he smooths his hand from his own chest to his abdomen, brushing away some invisible crumbs. Sherlock is helpless to resist the need to follow the motion with his own gaze. A dark desire curls up from some recess of his mind to present the idea of John’s body under his own hands, available for his exploration. The sudden tension and heat this thought evokes alarms him and he clears his throat, looking away. 

“So… do consulting detectives with super-powers have the _normal things_ in their lives?” John’s voice is a velvety smooth tenor, matching the mood of the restaurant now. He gazes up at Sherlock with kind regard. 

Sherlock turns his eyes to stare out the window. He is not sure how to answer that. He is not _normal_. Not even remotely. 

“I don't know. What do _normal people_ have in their _normal lives_?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow on John as he tries to understand the turn in the conversation. It is _too close._ Too close to all those truths Sherlock doesn’t want anyone to see, much-less this man that has managed to make him feel like something _more than_ a freak in their short time together. 

John looks away. A casual shrug lifts his shoulders briefly as he glances outside. “People they _like_. People they _don't like_. Friends.” His eyes turn slowly to Sherlock. They are sharp but still warm as they keenly evaluate his reaction. “Girlfriends. Boyfriends.… that sort of thing.” He waits. His gaze is heavy and gently prodding. It feels invasive; quietly demanding Sherlock's full attention. 

Butterflies escape from the pit of Sherlock’s stomach to flutter inside his chest. John has found a crack in his hard, cold exterior. He is slipping beneath all his well-crafted armor; wheedling his way into his very core. All his dark and dangerous secrets are laid out in full view. Yet John is looking at him as if he can't see the unmitigated disaster he clearly is and that twists up Sherlock's insides.

 _It's a lie._

Sherlock is the ersatz of a civilized and respectable man. A poor imitation of propriety and good breeding. He is, in actuality, a _mess_. Anyone with eyes can see the truth. 

Sherlock’s clothes are expensive but tattered. His shirt is more than three years old and too tight. He feels the buttons strain against his chest as he sits with one arm propped on the back of the seat. The white fabric is rumpled and on close inspection it is speckled with flecks of mud from a run through Regent’s Park the previous night. His other hand fiddles with a pull in the fabric on the left thigh of his trousers that, on a previous case, caught on a nail when climbing in a back window. The trousers were never tailored. They are too tight over the arse and too long and loose on his legs. They pool unattractively over his shoes that are scuffed from his various escapades. And that doesn't even touch upon his dark past and his aberrant ability. He is a freak playing a role; putting on a grand act full of spectacle and bluster, but it is just the Wizard trying to hide his inadequacies behind a curtain in an illusion that only works if one doesn't look too closely.

He stiffens, resisting the urge to sink back into the booth in a futile attempt to hide just how ‘not normal’ he is with all those glaringly apparent flaws. 

“So do you?” John presses after several minutes of silence.

“Do I _what_?” 

“Have a girlfriend?” He pauses, his tongue swiping over his lips as he tucks his chin to his chest and his voice drops lower. “Or... a boyfriend?” 

Sherlock stares at John as his thoughts swirl and thrash for some solid ground. John can't possibly understand. No one ever does. Normal is an unobtainable goal Sherlock abandoned long ago. Along with it, the idea that he could have any kind of relationship with another human being. It can only cause pain and pose an unacceptable risk; a weakness that can be exploited.

“ _Normal_... Sounds terribly _boring._ ” Sherlock makes his eyes cold and his expression indifferent. A bitter taste is working its way up his throat but he forces himself to stare John down and not look away. 

“Doesn't have to be.” John’s eyes sharpen in challenge as something dangerous flickers in their depths. His eyes dart from one of Sherlock’s eyes to the other, then drops slowly over his body. His smile deepens and he tips his head with an expression that suggests a _different kind_ of intrigue. 

John’s eyes draw Sherlock in, then they focus on the candle in the center of the table. He shifts forward and puts his finger out above the flame. He lets the fire flicker and flare, caressing at the flesh of his calloused index finger. It licks at his fingertip until the pain causes him to draw it back in a momentary retreat. He runs his thumb over his scorched fingertip until it cools. Then he promptly plunges it back in to tempt the flame to burn him again. 

There is a confusing reaction cascading through Sherlock’s body as he watches John; his breath is growing short, everything is cinching tight and the room feels too hot. 

This is clearly a message; a demonstration that the ex-soldier won't be deterred by the apparent danger and doesn't fear the pain.

 _Abnormal attraction to danger._

When Sherlock drags his eyes back up to meet John’s he finds the same open and inviting expression he wore in the alley when he gathered Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock blinks at him, startled by the reminder of their intimate moment. The sensation of John’s arms wrapped around him sings through his body, heating his blood further. _Everything is fire:_ the candle, the window, his body, John's eyes. Sherlock is burning.

He lets his eyes slide over John; all the details of his physicality rushing in as an intoxicating flood. Strong shoulders, a compactly muscled chest and powerful thighs speak of the latent power just below the surface of the ordinary looking army doctor who'd so easily knocked out the would-be mugger and had little trouble keeping pace during the run across the city. 

_Dangerous._

Sherlock feels his heart rate rachet up; adrenaline pumping through his veins like being on a rollercoaster climbing that first terrifying hill. His body is vibrating on the edge of fear and anticipation for the petrifying plunge that looms ahead.

After a moment, John's arms move out and his chest expands in a casual stretch that leaves his hand on the seat back, alarmingly close to Sherlock’s own. 

It takes a few seconds for Sherlock to blink off the shock. He fixes his eyes on their hands, dangerously close. He straightens his spine, takes a deep breath and clamps down on the flurry of emotions assaulting him.

“I feel obliged to inform you, one slip of your hand and you will be _dead_.” 

John focuses those dark blue eyes on him and his eyebrows lift. “Sorry, what?”

“There _are_ rules, John” Sherlock withdraws his hand from the back of the seat. He drops it to his lap and looks at his other hand; pale, thin and anxiously pulling at the loose thread on his thigh. “Rules. My… _ability_ has rules. First touch brings the person back to life, a second touch and they die… _forever_... I have... _revived_ you, John... The slightest contact of your skin with mine will be instantly fatal _to you_. We can _never_ touch.” 

John doesn’t look any of the ways that Sherlock expects a man should look that has just been informed that the man next to him can kill him with a simple touch. He isn’t alarmed, frightened or even concerned. His face is quietly thoughtful as he pours them both a glass of wine. He lifts his chin and grins as he pushes Sherlock’s glass over to him. His posture is confident and there is a challenging tilt of stubbornness and determination to his head and the set of his jaw. His eyes remain locked on Sherlock's as he lifts his own glass to his lips and takes a long drink. 

When John sets the glass down he pushes his blunt tongue through his lips and pulls them back in, pressing them together. 

“So… no kissing.” John is smiling gently with teasing sparks of amusement against the inviting warmth of his eyes. He leans forward a little, blinking slowly, blond lashes making a lazy glide over hooded deep blue. His lips are parted. He inhales through his nose; nostrils flaring slightly as his eyes drop to Sherlock’s lips and linger there a few seconds before drifting back up.

A hot pulse shivers up Sherlock's spine and fans across his scalp. He barely contains a shudder as all of his skin rebels in an undulating wave of cold chills. 

Flirting? Probably… no, _quite certainly_ this is flirting. He never has been very good at social cues and expectations, but John intentions seem clear. John wants him... Or at last he is playing at it. Sherlock has played at flirting before for a few cases, but it had never been genuine; it was a game with little to lose.

A ruse? A joke? Maybe. 

This is… _risky_

The intimate atmosphere is oppressively thick. Sherlock opens his mouth to respond and his lungs and brain both seize up so he closes it again. Before he can try (and fail) a second time the waiter brings John’s pasta dish and the ex-soldier plunges in with relish; shoving a fork-full in his mouth and making a little groan of pleasure that forces the rest of the air out of the room. 

Sherlock watches, entranced, as John takes a few more indulgent bites; lips stretching wide to completely take in fork and pasta before teeth snap down, scraping over metal tongs and pulling the piece off. It seems unnecessarily violent and more than a little intentionally suggestive. Sherlock's chest is beginning to burn and it has suddenly become quite difficult to swallow.

“You know, there are ways... _around_ that no-touching issue.” John gives Sherlock a crooked smirk as he tucks his chin and looks up from under his brow through his lashes. “If that's the sort of thing you'd be interested in.” His eyes sparkle with a playful heat of challenge. 

Chills race up the base of Sherlock’s spine and over his scalp. He can only blink. He is overwhelmed by the intensity of those untapped, primal urges that John stirred from their deep slumber when he requested a kiss. Alarm bells are blaring in his head. 

This is _definitely_ not his area of expertise. Sherlock’s brain scrambles for some appropriate way to respond. His mind races down a dozen unexplored paths, splitting into a hundred more. He desperately grasps at scraps of information, trying to weave them together, but he becomes hopelessly mired in the fundamental gaps in his knowledge. It is quicksand pulling him in and dragging him under. He pushes it all away. 

He doesn't do _this._

He pulls himself back from the recesses of his mind and John’s face, full of concern, comes into focus. 

“Getting a bit scary now.” John has taken hold of his sleeve and is shaking his arm tentatively. Sherlock inhales sharply and blinks the sting out of his dry eyes. He looks down and quickly jerks his arm away, fine needles of terror stinging across the skin beneath the sleeve where the heat from Johns touch lingers.

“Sorry.” John pulls his hand back. A rueful expression flickers over his face that shoots through Sherlock, churning his stomach. “You went a little catatonic there and I was just trying-”

 _It is far too risky._ John Watson is clearly _much more_ dangerous than Sherlock ever anticipated in that alley when his usual pure reason was toppled by the sheer melodrama of the moment.

It spills out of him all at once in cold and cutting tones. “John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered, I am really not looking for-”

“No, I don’t expect-” John speaks over Sherlock, throwing out his hand between them in a placating gesture. They both trail off at nearly the same time and a frosty silence settles over them. Sherlock can almost feel the wall slide up between them. 

John sighs and shifts away; his expression closing off. The light has drained from his eyes and all those enticingly suggestive signals evaporate. After a moment staring at his own hands, John clears his throat and looks him in the eyes. “It's _fine_... It's _all_ fine, Sherlock. No touching. Got it.” He ducks his head and quickly shoves another bite in his mouth. 

_Crisis averted._

“Thank you, John.” 

Sherlock turns his eyes back to the street but he cannot center himself on the task. As the tension of the threat of intimacy drains away he is left with an empty space in his chest; a familiar wound that feels new again.

“So, the Russian...” John’s encouraging smile does not touch his eyes. They hold a caution in their depths that makes Sherlock want to curl in on himself. He clears his throat, straightens his spine and forces himself to concentrate on the facts of the case. 

_Tattoo. Calluses. Wound. Cold cases._

“He was a trained killer, John. The Russian was an assassin for hire. It is unclear if he recruited the other man to rob and kill you in order to take any potential fall for the crime or if he merely was opportunistic in his decision to kill you after the mugger failed. So the question remains, _why you_?” His eyes focus intensely on John, trying to pull the answers out of him.

“Wrong place. Wrong time?” John shrugs. “Mistaken identity.”

“No. Cigarettes at the end of the alley… He waited. He waited until the mugger failed and then he came for you…” The scene of the crime is superimposed over John and the restaurant. Sherlock moves through the scene over and over again; plucking at the data, trying to extract its hidden conclusions. 

He focuses in on John lying motionless on the pavement in a pool of quickly cooling blood. There is _nothing_. Nothing there to tell Sherlock who wants to kill John or why. The frustration is prodding at him; insisting that if he was only a little more intelligent, like his brother, he could discern the proper clues and keep John safe. 

“Nothing of value… fairly antisocial at the present... insignificant…”

“Ta, for that,” John sits back, lifting his eyebrows. 

Sherlock’s mind is racing. He is chasing down the truth and he can’t slow down. 

“Unlikely to have powerful enemies… Yet, someone went to a lot of trouble and expense to kill you.” His eyes snap back to John. “I need to learn as much as possible about you to discern who stands to benefit from your death.” 

“That why you nicked my phone?” John tilts his head and lifts his eyebrows. He drags his eyes over the man before him. The look isn’t judgemental, but the quiet intensity is unnerving nonetheless. 

Sherlock freezes and his throat works around the lump in it. 

“Habit,” Sherlock turns his eyes to the window. His hand slips into the pocket of his coat and curls around the phone in it. 

“You have a _habit_ of nicking things?” John hides his grin by shoving another fork-full of food in his mouth, returning to the oddly exaggerated bites. 

Sherlock huffs a laugh. _He does,_ but he would consider it all duly justifiable. “I typically unravel the mystery surrounding a death by searching through the victim’s flat, their electronic devices, talking to people they knew...” He runs his fingers over John’s phone feeling the edges of the inscription catch on his fingertips. 

There is more to it than that, but he is unsure how much to share with the ex-soldier. At this point, there is no telling who the person responsible for hiring John’s assassin is, therefore he can’t be permitted to contact anyone until his case is resolved. Additionally, if John’s killer does have the capability to track John’s phone, Sherlock wants them coming after him, _not John._

“There are forces at work here, that we do not yet understand.”

“Right…” John shoves another bite in his mouth and chews, tipping his head to the side thoughtfully. “Speaking of which… what happened when the Russian came back? Another power? Did you… _think him dead_ or something.” John raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't want to reveal that part of _The Rules_ yet. No one knows that darkest dimension of his ability and he isn't quite sure how John will take the fact that another man's life was exchanged for his own; essentially making him an accessory to murder. He obviously has a conscience for such things since he had been very intentional in checking on the wellbeing of the first mugger. 

John's question tumbles through his head on a loop. Truth is relative and he needs to provide a sliver of truth that will not repulse John. As he holds the doctor’s inquiry up to the light, examining it from different angles, it suddenly catches, refracting the beam into the perfect spectrum and illuminating the previously unseen facts lurking in the shadows.

“Oh,” Sherlock exhales in the the blissful ecstasy of sudden revelation. 

John sputters; a quick inhalation of breath making him nearly choke on his food. He freezes, mouth falling open and eyes wide and fixed on Sherlock. 

“Yes. Of course, John. He _came back_... after he killed you he _came back_. Any rational person, and certainly a person that kills professionally for a living, would immediately put some distance between themselves and the scene of a recent crime… yet he came back, which means the motivation wasn't _just murder_. It was _robbery_ … of a very _specific item_ … and whatever he was hoping to get from you was _not_ among your possessions that he took off your body.”

John looks down at himself. “What do I have that a Russian assassin could possibly want?”

“That is _the question_ …” Sherlock glances down, assessing John's plate. He's made short work of the meal, attacking it with the ferocity of a starved wolf. 

“Got your breath back, John?” Sherlock pulls on his coat and gloves. 

John glances around. "Where are we going?” He draws deeply from his glass of wine and shoves another bite in his mouth in anticipation of the need to run. Sherlock momentarily fears he might eat the fork and all.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

“Sorry, what?” John pauses to stare at Sherlock, the remnants of his meal poised on the tip of his fork hovering just below his chin.

“I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days…” Sherlock sweeps out of the booth and John drops his fork and hustles to follow. “Flatmates should know the worst of each other.” Sherlock tries to remain calm; casually indifferent to John’s imminent reaction, as he tosses some money on the table and nods to the waiter.

“Wait.” The confusion in his voice is clear; not outright rejection but uncertainty. “Who said anything about flatmates?” 

“I did.” Sherlock pauses, holding John's stare just long enough to make it clear that there is an invitation in those words before turning to sweep out of the restaurant. John rushes to keep pace with him as he strides to the kerb and throws up an arm, leaning over and looking down the street.

“You came to London seeking new accommodations and it just so happens I have a little place, not far from here, in a prime location and in need of an additional tenant. You'll stay there…” It is all spoken with a quick and well-practiced smooth confidence that gives no indication of his internal state of uncertainty. A taxi pulls up and Sherlock holds open the door; at last looking into John’s eyes. 

John is gaping; eyes wide and dazed and jaw slack. 

For a brief moment Sherlock feels his uncertainty breaking through, seeping to the surface to shatter the facade of nonchalance and invulnerability. “Until we get you sorted, John.” It is not quite a question, but just soft enough to pass as a request.

John shuts his mouth with an audible clack, gives one tight nod and climbs into the taxi, sliding over to allow Sherlock to follow. 

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock says as he settles in and closes the door. He turns towards the window to hide the surge of satisfaction that threatens to break across his features. 

The taxi speeds off into the gathering darkness.

\--------------------

“That is _absurd._ I really prefer if you don't use the term _zombie._ ” Sherlock turns to speak over his shoulder as they mount the narrow steps to 221B. “There is no inbetween. There is _alive_ and there is _dead._ ” A quiet fissure of pleasure curls through Sherlock as they surrender their coats and scarf to the hallway hooks and make their way into the flat as if their comfortable companionship is the most natural thing in the world. 

“It's as good as any.” John’s amused voice drifts up from right behind him. His heavy footsteps creak on the old stairs. “When you're… you know, both.”

Sherlock shakes his head and huffs, biting down on a laugh in favor of continuing the absurd debate. He rolls his eyes as he pushes open the door to the sitting room. 

“Really, John? Mindlessly stumbling around? Squawking for brains?... That's hardly-" He is still waving his hand about when his eyes fall on the familiar form resting in his leather chair next to the fireplace. His breath turns to ash in his lungs and his heart strains against his ribcage as he stops short in the doorway. 

_Lestrade. No. Not yet!_

“Well, what better-” John continues. Sherlock holds up his fist in the military hand signal for _hold position_ and John immediately falls silent. Sherlock turns his head to the side and catches John's hand reflexively reaching for his gun that is not there. John's hand drops to his side, his first clenching and unclenching.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock stiffens and levels a cold stare at the intruder.

> The facts were this. Until precisely 2 hours and 23 minutes ago, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was the sole keeper of the consulting detective’s dark secret (save his brother, Mycroft). Lestrade had met the young man with the unusual ability to resurrect the dead five years prior when he was witness to Sherlock’s unintentional brush with a corpse. The resulting scene necessitated a lengthy explanation and a trip to the morgue as proof of concept. Once the pragmatic detective came to terms with Sherlock’s ability, he logically concluded that it had the potential to make his life a little easier. Sherlock reluctantly agreed. Though the consulting detective rarely did anything to endear himself to the Detective Inspector, crimes were solved. Lives were saved. So an alliance, of sorts, was formed. 

“So, I am at this crime scene and... it is _baffling_.” Lestrade runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair, leaving it bristling in an odd contrast to the nice suit and crisp white shirt he is wearing. His ankle is propped on one knee and he picks at his sock with one hand to occupy his fingers which are twitching in need of a cigarette. His foot on the floor taps restlessly from too much caffeine. His eyes have dark blue bags underneath them that indicate he has slept less than five hours in the last three days. He is angled towards the door and his other arm is draped across the low back of the chair; his body naturally sprawling as a result of boredom. He has been waiting for at least an hour then. 

Sherlock’s mind streaks ahead, spinning through scenarios and grasping for ways to avoid the looming catastrophe. He concludes Lestrade is likely to be irritable and easy to distract by luring into an argument. He throws his shoulders back and tips his chin up ready to poke the bear in the eye. 

“Hardly surprising. With the general lack of competence of the officers at the Yard, it is a wonder you solve anything at all.” Sherlock steps into the room so John can at last see the source of the voice. 

The change in the ex-soldier is instant and intriguing. His movements take on military precision as he steps forward. Fierce eyes fix on the stranger, assessing him as a threat, then they quickly shift around the room, lingering on the potential weapons scattered among the odds and ends. He tucks his chin and begins slowly but decisively moving across the room, parallel to the stranger. 

“Anderson alone brings down the average IQ of the whole lot by ten points.” Sherlock moves towards the windows, careful to keep both men in his peripheral. 

Lestrade’s watchful eyes track him with their usual doggedness, as if cautiously anticipating disaster at any moment. He pointedly avoids addressing Sherlock's comment, proceeding as if Sherlock never spoke. 

“So there are two blokes, one is pretty badly beaten but still alive, not that he’d ever tell us what happened when he wakes. The other is dead but there is no apparent cause.”

Sherlock blinks off the sensation of cold water sliding under his skin. He shrugs; brushing away the scenario with his usual disinterest for cases that pose no fascinating charms.

“Sounds like a classic drug deal gone bad. _Boring._ Hardly worth bothering me.” He does his best to affect casual indifference as he stands by the window. He pushes aside the curtain to glance out to the street below. No additional police cars, so not here to take him into custody.

“You might think so, yeah. Right area of the city for it, for sure, but there is somethin’ that don’t quite sit right... See there’s two knives; one bloody, but neither of them was stabbed. And there on the pavement is this large pool of blood… don’t belong to neither of ‘em… and I’m thinkin’ to myself... I have a _missing corpse_ on my hands… because there’s no way someone is going to walk away from _that much_ blood loss.” His eyes slide to John now. “But it’s not like corpses get up and walk away, now _do they_?” His head tilts to the side as his eyes sharpen on John.

John stops moving and squares his shoulders to Lestrade. He shifts forward, mouth set in a hard line and eyes steely under the DI’s stare. A muscle in his cheek twitches repeatedly. His eyes cut to Sherlock, clearly trying to determine the level of threat and if he should respond with force. 

Sherlock’s hand, low at his side, casts out a little to tell John to hold as he is. John returns his eyes to the DI and regards him coldly.

“Who is _he_?” Lestrade is staring at John with a hard edge of disapproval. The Detective Inspector is annoyingly draconian at the best of times but he clearly is not in a tolerant mood at present.

“He is with me.” In three quick strides Sherlock places himself between John and the DI.

“Yeah, but _who is he_?” Lestrade tips his head and thrusts his jaw forward as he glares at Sherlock.

“He’s _with me_.” Sherlock’s tone is sharp and edged with warning. Lestrade flicks his eyes between the two of them. His mouth fixes in a hard line and he sits back further in the chair before pulling himself up to standing. He reaches beside the chair and when he turns back Sherlock’s stomach sinks and his brain scrambles. He is holding out a cane with JW inscribed on the handle. 

Their escape had not been so clean after all. 

“You forgot something, JW.” Lestrade lifts his eyebrows as he takes a step forward. John’s jaw goes slack. Eyes full of shock affix to that cane. He looks down at his leg and back up at Sherlock with eyes that are sparking with wonderment.

Sherlock steps towards Lestrade and snatches the cane out of his hand.

“John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock glares at Lestrade then gestures at John. “Doctor John Watson was the victim of the Russian-”

DI Lestrade makes a sharp sound and throws up a hand, turning towards Sherlock with his eyes uncharacteristically hard and cold. The level of vehemence does not bode well.

“Don’t want to know… No, scratch that, I _can’t_ know... You can’t just go around -” He glances over at John and then takes a step towards Sherlock. His eyes are unforgiving; the same unappealing shade of brown as Mycroft’s and now just as leaden with disappointed frustration that pins Sherlock as an unredeemable failure. A muscle in his jaw twitches as his voice drops. “Went out on a limb for you - removed _that_ from a crime scene’” He gestures emphatically towards the cane still in Sherlock's hand. “You don’t want NSY looking into _this case_. It all leads back to _one place_.” He glances over at John. “Whatever is going on here, I can’t be a part of it… You’re on your own with _that one._ ” He shakes his head, weariness and frazzled nerves showing in the twitch of his eyes.

“It’s just so _shockingly stupid_... I have a hard time believing you did it.” His mouth twists in an unpleasant snarl as he leans in a little closer. “Be sure to clean up your mess, Sherlock.” His eyes cut to John. “I don’t care how.”

Sherlock feels his blood turn to liquid nitrogen, freezing everything as it races towards his heart. The muscles in his legs twitch, urging him to run. He turns and is met with John's sharp, blue eyes full of concern staring back at him. His eyes drop to John’s hands, clenching and unclenching at his side; ready to fight his way out. Sherlock straightens his spine and faces Lestrade. 

“You can't just come in here and treat me like a child-”

“I'm dealing with a child.” Lestrade throws up his hands in exasperation, snarling at Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. The potent desire to explode and verbally demolish the other man surges through him, but his eyes flick to John. John's jaw and fists are clenched and he is glaring at Lestrade with indignation. He is furious _for Sherlock._ He is ready to defend him. Everything threatening to boil over inside Sherlock suddenly settles. In the 19 years since his world turned upside down no one ever stood up for him. Now there is John. In this moment, more than anything Sherlock wants to be worthy of what this miraculous man sees in him. He swallows down the DI’s bitter insult and pivots away from him.

“Not here to help.” Sherlock moves away, breaking the tension. “Why, exactly, are you here?” He tosses the cane onto the couch.

“A case.” Lestrade looks down and sighs. He scrubs a hand over his face and slumps a little. The anger drains out of his face, replaced with heavy weariness and frustration. “The serial suicides.” Lestrade walks towards the door and stands facing the room, his shoulders hunched, his long coat pulled back and his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers. 

Sherlock’s mind jolts. The flurry of information from the serial suicides flits around his brain in a rapturous frenzy. Intrigue with an edge of excitement blooms inside him. He turns to face Lestrade. 

“There’s been a fourth. You wouldn't be here otherwise. Where?”

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.” Greg’s head tilts and his eyebrows raise in the more familiar air of trying to entice Sherlock to pursue a case. “Left a note this time.”

“A note? None of the others left a note.” Sherlock resists the urge to smile, turning towards the window as he schools his face. Oh, yes, this _is_ getting _interesting_ .

“Will you come?” 

Sherlock's hands slip into his own pockets and he pretends to debate it a moment. His mind is already racing ahead, considering the twists and turns the case might take. The need to immerse himself in the puzzle is vibrating beneath his skin. His body relaxes into the familiar all-consuming escape of a challenging mystery.

“Who’s on forensics?”

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s Anderson.” 

“I can’t work with Anderson.” Sherlock is all sharp edges again. The bone deep irritation with that insufferable buffoon, Anderson, gathers between his shoulder blades. It is an invisible weight that drags his heart down into his stomach and steals that bright edge of eager anticipation he had felt for the case awaiting him. 

“Well, you won’t be working _with him._ ” Sherlock flinches and turns towards the windows again. It is not just that the man is irritating and incompetent, it is that Sherlock often needs someone with medical expertise to consult. He also has come too close to disaster recently. There's so much to consider and once his mind is on the trail of a killer it is difficult to be as careful as one needs to be when concealing a dangerous secret. In his eagerness he tends to get careless. He needs assistance.

“But I _need_ an assistant.” Sherlock digs his teeth into his bottom lip. 

“Will you come.” Lestrade’s mouth is twisting up in irritation. He won't ask again. He is not a particularly proud man and has shown more patience than most in their interaction but the weight of this case, with its growing media coverage, has clearly left him frazzled and short tempered.

Sherlock touches his neck. He bows his head and looks at the floor a moment, chewing his lip.

“Not with you. I will follow behind.” 

“Thank you.” Lestrade manages to interject the words with an edge of annoyed frustration as he does a curt little bow from the waist; a mockery of veneration. He pointedly does not look at John as he turns to leave. The DI clearly hopes _that_ walking crime scene will disappear altogether.

“So…” John turns to Sherlock as the DI disappears down the stairs. His eyes brim with questions that are silently pressing Sherlock to respond. 

The front door of 221 slams and the excitement bursts up out of Sherlock, propelling him into the air, fists clutched in barely contained delight. 

“Brilliant! Yes!” The room is spinning around him and he wants to dance with the exhilaration of the world focusing down to nothing but that engrossing mystery waiting to be unraveled. “Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

Everything inside Sherlock is fizzing up in a flurry; the sweet elation of challenge, engagement and a purpose being fulfilled. Sherlock rushes to the sitting room door and leans out, looking down the darkened stairwell. 

“Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson!" There's no time for Sherlock to wait for a reply. He moves into the room, searching for the needed tools; tossing aside papers and the hodgepodge of oddities that have come to clutter the empty and far too large flat.

_Magnifying glass. Lock pick set. Handcuffs. The badge he’d nicked off of Lestrade. Where is it? Where is it?_

“Oh, who’s this?” Mrs. Hudson is in the doorway, hands clasped together in front of herself. Her eyes travel over John, thoughtfully assessing him. 

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson. He will be sharing the flat.” Sherlock looks up in time to see the spark of joy light Mrs. Hudson’s eyes as a little sound of delight escapes her. She is nearly giddy; motherly approval radiating out over John. “For a little while.” Sherlock clarifies sharply. His eyes cut to John who is smiling kindly at Mrs. Hudson. 

“Oh. Lovely! What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?” Mrs. Hudson moves into the room and picks up a newspaper by the wingback chair, placing it on the arm. She turns towards the staircase and gestures upward. “There’s another bedroom upstairs _if_ you’ll be needing _two bedrooms_.” 

Sherlock turns away searching the stacks of papers for his magnifying glass; pointedly not looking at John or Mrs. Hudson. Goosebumps are rising up his flanks and between his shoulder blades. His scalp is crawling and his face is heating. He knows what she is playing at. She is no better than Angelo, really, in her quiet prodding. The hairs on the back of his neck raise with the weight of John’s stare. He shrugs it off and continues the search for his lockpick set.

“Of course we’ll be needing two.” John's tone is flat, matter-of-fact, but there is the gentle shuffling of his feet that speaks to his uneasiness.

Mrs. Hudson, never one to relent easily, makes a little thoughtful noise and begins shuffling around the room tidying up. “Oh, don’t worry. There’s all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones. I think it’s rather sweet h-”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock whirls around on her. She flinches back a little, an ingrained reaction from the hardships of her previous life. Mr. Hudson was _not_ a gentle man. Sherlock steps over to her and puts a reassuring hand on her elbow. He would never say so but on occasion he makes the exception to his ‘no physical contact’ rule for Mrs. Hudson... when she needs it. “I’ll be late. Might need some food.” Sherlock lets a little smile curl his lips. Though she doesn’t admit it, it is clear that fussing over him and feeding him up pleases her.

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” She feigns disapproval but picks up a long abandoned teacup and saucer and moves towards the kitchen, tsking over the mess. Fondness for the silly, meddling, old woman surges through Sherlock and he habitually clamps down on it; squeezing his lips together and turning away.

“Something cold will do.” Sherlock says over his shoulder.

Sherlock lets his eyes sweep over John. The ex-soldier is watching him with slightly narrowed eyes. When he turns fully towards him, John shifts to attention; spine straight and shoulders back. 

_No. It's too dangerous._

“John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up.” Sherlock grabs the small leather pouch containing his lock pick set from the kitchen table and exits the flat, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson safely behind. 

Out in the street the harsh and damp night is cutting at Sherlock's flesh. Even as he loops the scarf around his neck and wraps his Belstaff tighter, he feels the cold creeping into his bones. Something is itching underneath his skin. He tries to walk to the kerb, but his feet bring him back to the front door of 221B. His mind stings anew with the image of John lying on the pavement with his lifeless hand cast out and he turns to walk away again. He begins to throw his arm up to hail a taxi, but then the movement of a CCTV camera on the building across the street catches his eye. It swivels slowly to face the sitting room window of 221B. Sherlock’s jaw clenches in a frustrated growl. He turns and rushes back inside.

In the doorway to the sitting room uncertainty overtakes Sherlock again. John is sitting in the wingback chair. He has picked up the newspaper and is leaning down over it. His body is curved into a smaller, more diminished form. The turn of his mouth and the slump of his shoulders is somber and pensive. There is something familiar about it that gnaws at Sherlock. Sherlock feels that odd squeezing sensation that he first had in the alley right before he chose to let John live; never certain what the consequences would be. 

John's eyes are scanning over an article about the most recent apparent suicide. He stops, narrowing his eyes on a photograph of D.I. Lestrade. He lifts it towards himself, his lips thrusting forward. 

“You’re a doctor... In fact, you’re an army doctor.” 

John looks up and his eyes instantly transform when they land on Sherlock; intense and tenacious. 

“Yes.” John moves swiftly; setting aside the paper and rising to his feet. There is that same spark in his eyes of tempered hopefulness that he first had staring up at Sherlock in the alley. Sherlock's chest aches sharply. He steps into the room, pulling at his gloves.

“Any good?” Sherlock approaches slowly. 

“Very good.” John’s gaze is hard now. Confident. His chin tips up slightly and his chest rises; a soldier inviting inspection. 

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

“Mmm, yes.” John’s eyes narrow, but there is no apparent signs of distress at the mention of violent death. The way his eyes gleam and his chin tucks down suggests he is chafing at the restraints, ready to plunge into the fray.

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Sherlock is in his personal space now, close enough to read any twinge of hesitation or doubt. 

“Of course, yes.” John glances down and to the right, an indication he is remembering something visual, but his face does not flinch at the invoked images. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” His eyes slide back to Sherlock and they are the same as on the rooftop; enlivened with purpose and determination. 

“Wanna see some more?”

“Oh, God, yes!” His words tumble out so eagerly, it is a gush, like a sigh of relief over a long awaited release. 

The feeling rushes through Sherlock too; an expansive rapture making his body lighter. Pieces of the puzzle are sliding into place and interlocking. A mystery is unraveling; all the disjointed clues aligning in an elegantly simple solution. It is thrilling and terrifying as it shivers up Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock spins on his heel and leads John out of the room and down the stairs. They call their good-byes to Mrs. Hudson as they spill out onto the street.

And so it is, with hearts pumping with renewed life, that the consulting detective and the ex-soldier once again race out into the night. 

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. The Best Condition or Degree (Pink): Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock must track down a serial killer, identify John's murderer and survive old enemies, old habits and new feelings.

> The facts were these: Precisely 17 days, 4 hours and 19 minutes prior to Sherlock and John leaving 221B for the crime scene at Lauriston Gardens the body of Sir Jeffrey Patterson, a prominent businessman, had been discovered at an unsecured construction site. He was the second of three apparent suicides over four weeks. Two men and one woman with no discernable connection had met untimely ends in a strikingly similar way. 
> 
> James Phillimore, the first, a sophomore at university who was planning to go out with a friend for the night, turned back to get his umbrella and was later found in an office building. Beth Davenport was the last, a woman out for the night with co-workers that disappeared and was found in a warehouse. Different ages, professions, and social circles, yet each was found in places that they had no reason to be; places they had never been before the night they chose to take their lives there. Each seemed to have no motivation for suicide. Each chose to do so in the same way; poison in a cheap glass of red wine. 
> 
> The common thread that binds these seemingly disparate incidents together, mystifies the police and cinches tight those primal fears in the hearts and minds of the citizens of London. For, _as both the consulting detective and the ex-soldier were soon to discover,_ nothing is more terrifying than the unseen enemy; that unknowable predator that stalks you from the shadows. 

As Sherlock emerges from the cab his mind is on a different thread; the delicate strands of circumstance holding the man by his side. The doctor and ex-soldier that was a stranger hours earlier is now completely immersed in his life. The consulting detective's insides are vibrating; oscillating somewhere between dread and euphoria as he strides towards the police tape strung across the road at the crime scene.

“Hello, freak.” Sargent Donovan’s hair bounces as she tips her head back to look down her nose at Sherlock. 

Sherlock straightens his spine and, with his hands clasped behind his back, looks her over quickly. Her hair is frizzy, lacking the usual product. Her shampoo is a different brand than usual too; now something harsh and cheap. Her clothes are creased and show signs of being on their second day of wear, her makeup is smudged, and her knees are nearly raw. As he breathes in deeply through his nose he catches the smell of men’s deodorant radiating off of her. She clearly did not make it home last night.

“Sally.” He looks past her. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.” 

“Why?” Donovan thrusts her jaw forward and narrows her eyes. 

Sherlock has no wish to waste time on their usual warfare. Fierce, remarkably heartless and moderately intelligent, Sherlock appreciates Sally in the way he appreciates especially clever criminals; as a formidable opponent and welcome distraction. She provides a type of conditioning, similar to the bullies of his youth. Combatting her keeps his skin thick and his tongue sharp. However, now Sherlock is keenly aware of the man standing beside him and watching their interactions closely. John is likely to judge him as quite unsuitable for all those warm looks that had been directed his way earlier if Sherlock sinks his teeth into Sally proper.

“I was invited.” Sherlock keeps his tone neutral and his eyes on his intended destination.

“Why?” Donovan goads.

Sherlock sighs and lifts the police tape to duck under it. “I think he wants me to take a look.” He clips the ‘k' sharply, his temper being tested by her persistence. He turns to lift the tape for John and Donovan throws out a hand towards him, glaring.

“Wait now. Who’s this?” Donovan’s eyes travel up and down John and her head tilts to the side as her eyes narrow.

“Colleague of mine. _Doctor_ Watson.” Sherlock turns to John with a little bubble of something akin to pride swelling under his sternum. 

“Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan.” Sherlock lifts the tape again, but Sally does not lower her arm from barring John.

“A colleague? How do you get a colleague?!” Donovan leans forward, looking John over critically, no doubt hoping to find some fodder for her next verbal assault. Finding nothing, she leans back and smiles slightly at John. “What, did he follow you home?” She jerks her head at Sherlock and lightens her expression, inviting John to join her in a joke at Sherlock’s expense. 

The answering bone chilling stare from John makes it clear exactly where he stands. The ex-soldier's eyes are dark and flickering with cold flames as he glares at Donovan with his mouth drawn tight in irritation. His jaw is so tight that the tendons stand out in his neck and the quiet fury radiates off of him in waves. He is on the edge and attempting to hold his temper. 

Sherlock feels disoriented. He mentally chastises himself for the ridiculous weakness that comes over him as that warm and euphoric bubble bursts in his chest, bathing his insides in gratitude and relief. John choosing to stand beside him when given an easy way to distance himself is more than Sherlock has ever experienced before. His face begins to heat and he has to look away. 

“Would it be better if I just waited-” John is bristling as he eyes Donovan and begins to turn away.

“No.” The word comes out too quickly. Sherlock is hyper-aware of both John's and Donovan’s eyes on him, assessing his overreaction. He looks towards the building as he lifts the tape for John and holds it there insistently until John steps through.

As John walks under the tape, Donovan lifts a radio to her mouth. “Freak’s here. Bringing him in.”

She saunters as she leads Sherlock and John towards the house; hips swaying and high heels clicking on the pavement in her rumpled, short, black skirt that smells of sex with her cheap lover. Sherlock knows this show is not for _his_ benefit. From the depths of him rises an odd queasiness, a prickly discomfort that warns of a perceived threat. His body begins moving of its own accord, sweeping forward and looking all around the yard and street as they approach though, as anticipated, there is no relevant data to be found. He turns a little circle and feels a surge of bright satisfaction at glimpsing that John has his brow furrowed and his eyes intensely focused on his every move. 

As they reach the pavement, Anderson steps out of the building. His face is pulled tight and his beady eyes lock on to Sherlock with disdain. He is far less interesting than Donovan; lacking in intelligence, competence and creativity. Having an argument with Anderson is about as satisfying as winning a game of tic-tac-toe against a three year old. 

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock narrows his eyes on the fussy man. 

Anderson bristles. His sense of impotence over his inability to find anything relevant to resolve the serial suicide cases is nearly tangible. His chest is thrust out and he is straining to appear taller as he stands on the step above them. He starts right in on marking his territory by stating the obvious as if it provides any value. 

“It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”

One whiff of him and there is no question who Sally’s cheap lover is. Sherlock's gut turns with revulsion. He has never met Anderson’s wife but she must be exceedingly tolerant to put up with the heel of a man, and Anderson has returned the favor with betrayal. Sherlock has never stomached adulterers well. He finds it difficult to find any empathy for one that spits on a gift you know you would treat as precious were it not decidedly unobtainable to you. 

The slight queasiness clears completely when he sees John’s eyebrows lift and mouth turn up slightly when he bluntly exposes Anderson as married and having an affair with Donovan. The look of horror and humiliation on Anderson’s and Donovan’s faces is delicious. 

Donovan stiffens as Anderson turns to her, his weaselly face caught between shock and fear. Donovan’s emotions settle into a dark fury. She shifts back on her heels in clear preparation for throwing a punch at Sherlock. He strides into the building, leaving them in a satisfyingly familiar state of chaos and John following close behind. 

They quickly locate Lestrade on the ground floor and at the center of the bustling scene. He is pulling on a coverall. He looks up at them as they enter and the wave of irritation and exasperation sweeps across his face like a dark shadow.

“Christ.” Lestrade drags his hand over his face, clearly wishing to wipe away the sight of John, a recent murder victim turned major liability, standing in the middle of his crime scene. “What’s _he_ doing here, Sherlock?” Lestrade’s eyebrows are gathered in the middle of his forehead and his gaze almost has a pleading edge to it, as if he suspects the consulting detective is suddenly trying to destroy him. 

“He’s with me.” Sherlock motions John towards the pile of coveralls, refusing to look Lestrade in the eyes as he pulls off his leather gloves and snatches up a pair of latex ones.

“But _here_ , Sherlock?” Lestrade looks John over again. His eyes are full of confusion and irritation when he turns them back on Sherlock.

“Where is it then?” Sherlock narrows his eyes and sets his jaw, giving Lestrade a hard look before he turns his gaze to the staircase. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that John has pulled on a coverall. It is the same dull blue that his eyes were before Sherlock revived him. His insides go cold at the memory and he briskly turns and starts to move away. 

Lestrade shakes his head. He sighs heavily, picks up another pair of latex gloves and and turns towards the staircase. “Upstairs.” Lestrade pushes ahead of Sherlock and leads them up the winding staircase.

Once in the room the world narrows down as Sherlock soaks in all the details of the crime scene. He strides a few paces into the room and then stops, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focuses. 

Deductions swirl and settle over him as he glances around. The room is empty of furniture. The wallpaper is peeling and it smells of damp and recreational drugs. There is a wooden rocking horse in the far corner; abandoned and irrelevant. Scaffolding poles hold up part of the ceiling near a couple of large holes through one of the walls. In the center of the room is a woman in an aggressively pink coat and matching high heel shoes. She is face down and her hands are flat on the floor beside her head. 

He memorizes her position as he takes in the state of her clothes and shoes. They are designer, expensive, fairly new and immaculate. She obviously does not belong in a place like this.

“Hasn’t been here long.” Lestrade scratches at the stubble on his chin and glances up at the emergency portable lighting they’ve set up. “Some kids found her. Teens, really. No wallet on her. Likely someone nicked it before the kids came round. Running her prints now.” Lestrade stares at her a few seconds before crossing his arms over his chest. He shifts irritably and glances at John. “I can give you two minutes.”

“May need longer.” Sherlock moves further into the room, glancing around. They both know that one minute is all Sherlock will allow with the recently deceased; a rule Sherlock set down without explanation when he first agreed to use his ability to assist in solving crimes. However, the compulsion to always push at the boundaries Lestrade sets is habitual; a small form of rebellion against the man having control over him.

The agitation is radiating off of Lestrade to the point that it is distracting. As Sherlock continues to circle the body he can hear the DI shifting and the slightly aggressive intake of breath through his nose. He knows the older man is pondering John as a liability to their fairly productive arrangement. 

Sherlock does not fool himself. Lestrade is not his friend nor does he care for him with anything nearing genuine affection. In the DI’s eyes he is simply an asset to be managed, maintained and employed when needed. And because he is a valuable tool, Lestrade will protect him in some ways. He will keep Anderson and Donovan on a leash (to a point) and he will look the other way when Sherlock does something that isn’t strictly legal in pursuit of justice or out of boredom. He will turn a blind eye to the multitude of minor infractions for the benefit of Sherlock’s proven results. However, right now John poses a potential threat to their delicate and morally gray balance. So naturally the DI is trying to determine the degree of threat and what he should do to mitigate it.

“Shut up.” Sherlock turns and glares at Lestrade.

“I didn’t say anything.” Lestrade’s eyes go wide before they narrow on Sherlock, shifting to defensiveness. 

Sherlock glances at John. The ex-soldier is staring at the body on the floor with his eyes glazed and distant; obviously remembering something that pulls his features towards sadness. Sherlock shifts uneasily and glares at Lestrade again. “You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

Lestrade looks down. He knows better than to argue. Sherlock can usually trace the path of his thoughts easily and with remarkable accuracy. There is no use denying it, so he just gives a quick nod and shifts his attention to the woman in pink.

Sherlock turns back to the woman and steps forward slowly until he reaches the side of the corpse. Letters are scratched into the floorboards near the woman’s left hand. _R A C H E_. Her fingernails, the same shade of pink as her coat and shoes, have been professionally painted. The middle nails of her left hand are broken and ragged at the ends. The pink nail polish is chipped in stark contrast to her other nails which are still pristine. The woman’s index finger of her left hand rests at the bottom of the ‘e’ as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died. 

This was her note. The most important word she could convey as she was dragged towards death. Sherlock contemplates its meaning, quickly ticking through the potential words until he lands upon the most likely solution. 

Sherlock moves around her body, running his gloved hand along the back of her coat to discover it is wet. He reaches into her left pocket and finds that the white folding umbrella within it is dry. Putting the umbrella back into her pocket, he moves up to the collar of her coat and runs his fingers underneath it, discovering it is wet. 

He takes out a small magnifier, clicks it open and closely inspects her jewelry. There is a thick gold bracelet on her left wrist, gold earrings and a gold chain around her neck that are all in good condition; well cared for and professionally cleaned. He moves on to look at the rings on her left ring finger. The wedding ring and engagement ring are a style that was popular over a decade ago and are dirty and damaged. He blinks as the data rattles through his brain and coalesces into a conclusion.

Carefully he works the wedding ring off the woman’s finger and holds it up to look at the inside of the ring. The inside is clean and smooth. He lowers the ring and slides it back onto the woman’s finger. Lifting his hands away from the woman, he looks down at her and makes his final deductions about her. 

Standing up, he takes off the gloves and then gets his mobile phone from his pocket and begins typing on it.

“Anything to go on?” Lestrade shifts forward eagerly.

“A bit.” Sherlock looks up weather information on his phone and scrolls through local forecasts.

“She’s German.” Anderson appears in the doorway and leans casually against the frame. He crosses his arms over his chest and touches one gloved hand to his lips as he continues to speculate about ‘Rache’ being German for ‘revenge’. 

It is ridiculous nonsense, buzzing about Sherlock’s head like relentless flies. Sherlock walks quickly towards the door. “Yes, thank you for your input.” He slams the door shut on Anderson, then turns and walks back into the room. 

“Oh, no.” Lestrade drags a hand over his face. “We’re not even going to be able to understand her because she speaks German.”

“She’s not German.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and shoots Lestrade a look that clearly communicates that his IQ has dropped at least fifteen points from sleep deprivation. He returns his eyes to his phone, still searching for what he needs. At last he finds the weather information and feels the satisfaction of snapping one more piece of the puzzle into place. Slipping the phone back in his pocket, he turns to the body. “That’s obvious.”

“Sorry – obvious?” John steps forward, his eyes still on the body.

Sherlock’s heart gives a little startled jump at John’s interjection. He had naturally slipped into the familiar motions of solving the crime and had been so engrossed in gathering data about the corpse that he had blocked out the ex-soldier’s presence entirely; closing the mental door on the constant, distracting flow of data from him as he had just done on Anderson. 

Re-awareness of him comes as an avalanche that makes Sherlock’s breath catch in his chest a moment. John’s eyes are sparkling with fascination and his eyebrows are lifted in curiosity as he leans forward eagerly. His left hand is flexing at his side as if he can barely restrain his natural instincts for action. 

That spark in John’s eyes is a reflection of Sherlock’s own enjoyment of delving into and unraveling the mystery. It sets off a soft flutter in Sherlock’s chest at the thought that someone might actually be able to share his enjoyment of solving crimes. 

“What about the message?" Lestrade leans back with his arms over his chest and his brow furrows.

Sherlock ignores Lestrade and steps towards John. “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

John’s eyes snap up to Sherlock, wide with surprise. “Of the message?”

“Of the body. You’re a medical man.” Sherlock steps to the side, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Wait, no!” Lestrade unfolds his arms and steps forward, casting out a hand to block John who has not yet moved to take Sherlock’s invitation. “We have a whole team right outside. They can-”

“They won’t work with me and, as I said, John is a _doctor_.” Sherlock motions John over.

“I’m already breaking every rule just letting you in here.” Lestrade draws himself up and glares at John.

Sherlock straightens his spine and lowers his voice. “Yes ... because you _need me._ ” It is not a card he plays often, at least not so blatantly. Lestrade doesn't want to need Sherlock and can likely solve the case, eventually, though undoubtedly slower and therefore with an additional body count. Overplaying this point is just as likely to get Sherlock temporarily banned from crime scenes as it is force Lestrade’s hand... but it is a gamble he is willing to take now. He isn't sure how long these fragile threads will bind John to him, so his time is better spent in John's presence; no matter if that be by getting John engaged in solving this crime or by solving John’s murder after being kicked off of this crime scene.

Lestrade stares at him for a moment weighing what Sherlock is demanding. He lowers his eyes. “Yes, I _do_. God help me.”

Satisfied at this significant victory, Sherlock sweeps his arm towards the body. “Doctor Watson.” 

John hesitates, narrowing his eyes on the woman, then turning his head towards Lestrade with eyebrows lifted, assuring he has permission.

“Oh, do as he says. Help yourself.” Lestrade tetchily glares at both of them, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back again. As John moves forward, he sighs heavily and turns to open the door, stepping out. “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.” 

Sherlock and John walk over to the body. Sherlock squats down on one side of it and John kneels on the other. John leans over the body and looks up at Sherlock. 

“What are we doing here?” John's eyes are darting back and forth between Sherlock’s two eyes. There is a shift in his demeanor near the body, a relaxing into authority that speaks to his own competency and comfort in this situation. This is Doctor Watson’s natural domain.

“Solving a murder.” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at John, a crooked smile pulls one corner of his mouth up and he lifts his eyebrows to suggest that this is a pretty obvious conclusion. 

“How am I supposed to help with that?”

“You’re a doctor, John.” Sherlock nods at the body between them in encouragement. 

“Right… and she’s _dead._ ”

“A perfectly sound analysis, but I _was_ hoping you’d go deeper.” Sherlock fixes John with a challenging gaze. A smile creeps onto John’s face and he shifts closer.

“Can’t you just-” John looks up as Lestrade comes back into the room. The DI shuts the door and stands in front of it, giving a quick nod to Sherlock. 

“We mustn’t waste time asking her questions we can answer ourselves, John.” 

John leans in further and his voice drops lower. “He knows what you do?” His eyes flick subtly towards Lestrade. 

Sherlock looks down and nods. There is an odd feeling of an intimacy broken in this admission. As if it had the potential to be _their secret._ If the disappointment he senese is John’s or his own is hard to discern, but it hangs there between them for a few seconds.

“Right.” John pulls back a little, swallows and leans forward to look more closely at the woman’s body. He puts his head close to hers and sniffs, then leans back a little before lifting her right hand and looking at the skin. He straightens up and looks across to Sherlock.

“Yeah ... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit.” He glances at Lestrade as he speaks. “Smell some alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly combination of the alcohol and some drugs.”

“You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.” Sherlock watches the recognition light John’s face.

“Sherlock, I said I’d give you two minutes.” Lestrade pulls a hand through his hair. “Get on with it.”

Sherlock looks up at John. The ex-soldier is watching him with that quiet fascination and it shakes him at his foundation. He swallows and starts to move his hand towards the woman’s hand. A creeping sensation of nervousness twists through his insides and he freezes. 

“What is it?” Lestrade shuffles forward anxiously. 

Sherlock looks up at him and then at John. He feels the heat in his cheeks but he pushes the words out. “You can’t watch.”

John shifts back, his eyes opening wide. He glances at Lestrade then back to Sherlock. “Sorry, what?”

“You. Turn away. It’s-” Sherlock can’t say that it’s _embarrassing_ but he thinks it surely must be apparent as his face feels like it has been lit on fire. “It’s putting me off.”

John’s lips pull down. “Just me?” His brow furrows as he glances at Lestrade.

Sherlock looks away. John is offended. He clearly thinks it is some sort of insult that Lestrade can watch and he can’t, whereas the opposite is true. The consulting detective can’t find the words to explain this.

“For god’s sake just look away.” Lestrade snaps.

“Right.” John’s jaw tenses and he turns away.

Sherlock starts the timer on his watch and quickly taps the woman’s hand.

_The cold._  
The surge of heat.  
The pop of electricity. 

The woman in pink slowly lifts her head off the floor. She sniffs and, oblivious to the others in the room, resumes scratching at the letter “E” on the floorboards.

“Fecking bastard.” She mutters under her breath and sniffs loudly again.

“Who’s Rachel?” Sherlock says immediately as he leans in.

The woman in pink looks up and around, her eyes snapping between Sherlock and John.

“Oh, thank god!” Her voice is full of relief as she lifts up a little. 

“Not quite.” Sherlock looks up and catches John’s eye. It is suddenly hard to breathe. The doctor’s eyes are sparkling with wonder and fascination and he is smiling at Sherlock.

“Who are you?” The woman starts to move to stand and everyone in the room lunges forward speaking at once. She freezes and her eyes settle on John, wide with fear. “What’s going on?”

John scoots forward on his knees and his expression shifts to exude kind professionalism. “I am Doctor John Watson.” He gestures at Sherlock. “This is Sherlock Holmes, a detective.” He raises an arm towards Lestrade that is behind her. “That man over there is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We are here to help, but you need to stay _very still_ for us.”

“Yes, doctor.” Her smile is warm and flirtatious. “I can be still… _for you._ ” She lifts one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him and there is certainly some subtext _there._

Sherlock feels a twinge in his stomach.

“Good. Thank you.” John smiles back in the same doctorly manner. “What’s your name?”

“Jennifer. Jennifer Wilson.” John glances up at Lestrade, who nods. The DI’s mouth is slightly agape. Sherlock knows his own expression to be similar. This is as smoothly as it has ever gone.

“Right. Jennifer, something has happened. We need to find out what. We have a few questions. Alright?”

Jennifer nods and does her best to beam a winning smile at John from her awkward position flat on her stomach on the floor. John looks up at Sherlock and nods. Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“Mrs. Wilson you have been murdered and we wish to find your killer. We have a very limited amount of time to talk, so do answer my questions as quickly and as thoroughly as possible.”

“Murdered?” Jennifer gasps and begins choking out whimpering sobs that make her body shake. “Oh, god. I thought… No, no, no, no. I can’t be _dead._ My career is just taking off and I have that trip to Italy planned next year.” She whips around to look at John. “The tickets are non-refundable. _Non-refundable!_ ”

“It’s alright, Jennifer.” John reaches out and places his hand on her arm.

Sherlock suddenly feels sick. 

“Deep breaths.” John takes a few deep breaths and Jennifer follows suit. The whimpering sobs die down into little sniffs. “Listen. There’s nothing to do about all that now. We want to help though. We can get the person that did this if you help us.” He glances up at Sherlock. “This man over here is a genius. He is going to tell you what he knows then ask a few questions so we can fill in the gaps.” He gives her arm a pat and turns his attention to Sherlock.

She nods slowly, turning back to Sherlock with eyes that are large and liquid. 

Sherlock swallows. He has made his face blank, but his insides are tumbling as his mind tries to get a grasp on all the new data about John emerging in this moment; John kind, in command and providing the victim with comforting touches. John calling him a genius. These two things swirl in that distracting clickty-clack of uneven gears in the corner of his mind. He shoves it all aside and narrows his eyes at the woman before him.

“You are in your late thirties. Professional person, going by your clothes. I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink.”

“I’m a reporter.” Jennifer’s smiles. “You’ve seen me on TV?” She looks over at John and smiles broadly, fluttering her eyelashes.

“No.” Sherlock snaps out the word too harshly and flushes under John’s look of surprise. His body feels bristly and he cannot pinpoint why.

Jennifer returns her attention to Sherlock, her brows drawn together and a small frown on her face. She is starting to not like him.

“From out of town. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night.”

“Right.” Jennifer nods. “Covering those stupid serial suicides…” Her face falls. “Didn’t think-” She starts sniffing again. John shuffles his knees forward a little more and places his hand on her arm again.

Sherlock’s insides are doing odd things, twisting up and tumbling over and over. Sharp edges of something like anger is cutting at him. 

“Married.” The word flies out like an accusation. Sherlock blinks, trying to get a hold on himself. 

Jennifer looks down at her left hand. 

Sherlock can’t restrain himself. They are both looking at him but John still has a hand on her arm and the words bubble up and keep spilling out like a pot boiling over. “Unhappily. It’s obvious. Wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of your jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not your wedding ring. State of your marriage right there.” He looks up at John. John's expression has shifted. His jaw has tightened and his eyes are hardening, but his goddamn hand is still on Jennifer. “Serial adulterer too.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice is full of warning as he steps forward with a stern expression on his face. “For God’s sake, if you’re just making this up…”

Sherlock glares up at Lestrade, pointing at her hand. “The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed.” He turns a disdainful look back on Jennifer. “The only polishing it gets is when you work it off your finger. Not for your work as a reporter. So what, or rather _who_ do you remove your rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; you’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. None of them knew you were married. It’s all so obvious.”

The sense of dark satisfaction at exposing the manipulative woman evaporates quickly. The room is eerily quiet and tangibly tense. Everyone is staring at Sherlock with eyes that are a chilling mixture of anger, disappointment and disgust. It is all too familiar. Sherlock presses his lips together and looks down into Jennifer’s face. She is a thundercloud of rage. Her eyes burn and she is flushed red. 

“Who the hell do you think-” She lunges at Sherlock.

 _Warm, then cold.  
The pop of electricity._

She falls flat to the floor; dead once more. 

No one breathes for a moment.

“Well, that was bloody worthless.” Lestrade’s glare is heated, building towards explosion.

“I wouldn’t say _that._ ” Sherlock taps his watch, pulls his latex gloves back on and begins carefully arranging the corpse exactly the way she was when he entered the room. He moves down her body to position arms, coat and legs. He is deliberately not looking at John, who stumbled back when Jennifer dropped dead again. The very real visualization of what would happen if he touched Sherlock is obviously affecting him. “We have loads to go on.”

Sherlock stands up and moves back to re-valuate the scene. All the data coalesces, sliding into place to form a whole picture that still has some crucial pieces missing, but is starting to resemble something discernable.

“Walk me through it.” Lestrade takes out his notepad.

“Fingerprints will confirm this is Jennifer Wilson. Her records will confirm she works in the media. Financials can be pulled to establish that she purchased a ticket from Cardiff to London with a return ticket for tomorrow.”

Lestrade taps his pen on the pad a second and looks up at him. “So how’d you get that?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock gestures at the body.

“It’s not obvious to me.” John admits quietly. He is still crouching on the floor and gazing at the dead body of Jennifer, his lips thrust forward thoughtfully. 

Sherlock’s insides are squirming, pulled painfully taut. His little demonstration of both the most despicable parts of his personality and the danger of his ability has no doubt ensured that John has finally made the transition to the typical levels of abhorrence or antipathy he earns from the rest of the human race. 

He turns towards Lestrade, intent on being the one pushing instead of the one being pushed away. “Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.”

Lestrade is far too used to his bouts of hostility. He just lifts an eyebrow. Sherlock sighs and turns back to the body, pointing out all the facts plainly in sight for anyone that cares to look.

“Clothes are expensive. Clearly a professional woman. The shade is abnormally bright. Therefore for a profession where one wants to be the center of attention. Not uncommon for female reporters that wish to draw and keep the attention of viewers. A job in media would also explain the frequent travel required to successfully sustain a string of lovers. Her coat is slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused. Not just wind, but strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. Her suitcase tells us that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?” Sherlock pulls out his phone from his coat pocket and shows to Lestrade the webpage he was looking at earlier, displaying today’s weather for the southern part of Britain. “Cardiff.”

“That’s fantastic.” John breathes out the words in a gush.

Sherlock turns towards him slowly. He feels the stutter of his heart in his chest as he looks down into those bright eyes and a face soft with wonder. He had considered that the compliments were part of John chatting him up and he certainly never expected after shooting him down, that the praise would continue beyond that intimate setting. He quickly blanks his face that must be conveying his confusion and shock.

“Sorry.” John ducks his head and returns his eyes to Jennifer’s body with an expression of embarrassment. 

“Go on.” Lestrade encourages.

“Unhappily married and serial adulterer, as I explained, is all in the state of her jewelry. Love affairs are often a motivation for murder, but given that the lives of the other victims did not prove to be a factor, it is unlikely that tracking down her string of lovers or her, likely oblivious, husband will prove fruitful.”

“Brilliant.” John shakes his head in disbelief as he runs his eyes over the body again. 

Sherlock’s brain slides offline for a few seconds. The potent shock of pleasure at genuine praise from John is quickly followed by his brain scattering in confusion; trying to discern motivation, trying to defend against a sudden sense of vulnerability, trying to formulate an appropriate response that a _normal person_ would make to a compliment. He steps closer to John and drops his voice lower. “D’you know you that you are doing that out loud?” 

John looks up and swallows, looking concerned. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s…” Sherlock doesn’t want him to stop. Not really. He wants to not feel like it is stripping him naked and exposing him, but he doesn’t want John to become like everyone else, only ever throwing hateful words his way. He swallows. “It’s fine.” Sherlock turns away to hide the heat in his cheeks and the lost look he is having trouble disguising.

“You asked her about _Rachel_?” Lestrade lifts his eyebrows. He is tapping his pen against his notepad impatiently.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock spins around, searching the room. “Where is it? Where’s the case. She must have had a phone or an organiser to find out who Rachel is.”

“She was definitely writing ‘Rachel’?” Lestrade scratches it down on his notepad.

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German!” Sherlock spins away in irritation over the memory of Anderson encroaching on his thoughts with his baseless speculations. “Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. She wrote it on her deathbed, resumed the effort as soon as she came back, as you saw. It must be significant.”

“You keep mentioning a suitcase. How d’you know she had a suitcase?”

Sherlock turns back to the body, pointing down at the leg where her tights have small black splotches on the lower part of her right leg. “Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left.” Sherlock squats down by the woman’s body and examines the backs of her legs more closely. “She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread which means she was not staying long. Now, where is it? What have you done with it?” 

“There wasn’t a case.” Lestrade narrows his eyes and taps his pen to the notepad.

Sherlock raises his head and frowns up at Lestrade. “Say that again.”

“There wasn’t a case. Only evidence they already took was the wine glass. There never was any suitcase.”

Sherlock’s body jolts as the electric shock of that statement explodes across his brain. Lightning zips along his nervous system and he is in motion; out the door and flying down the stairs. His mind is racing, the excitement is welling inside him as one domino topples, leading to the next, then the next, then the next. The criminal’s trail materializes before him as clearly as if it is marked out on the floor. 

Down, down, down the winding stairs with police officers moving by him like phantoms whipped into a swirling frenzy by the violent wind. His words churn them in his wake. 

Lestrade is calling to him, asking him questions, but his mind is driven, devoted to one task only. The words are flying out automatically, a jumble being hurled back at the DI so he can break free and chase down the killer. 

Sherlock looks up and John and Lestrade are staring down at him. John’s eyes are blazing and his pink lips are curled into a smile. He swipes his tongue across them, looking eager; his expression a mixture of confusion, excitement and wonder. Sherlock’s whole body sings with the reverberation of those emotions. 

“What is it Sherlock? What is the killer’s mistake?” Lestrade leans forward over the rail.

“Pink!” Sherlock turns and races out of the house, sure that John is right behind.

It is half an hour and a half mile later when the consulting detective at last concludes his frantic search for the missing case. Triumphant, he lifts the pink case out from under the tarp at the skip and turns to John, only to realize that he is not beside him. Never was. Sherlock’s insides sink and a deep sense of dread curls into his stomach. 

John has been left behind. _Lost._

______________

 

“Forget something, Freak?” Sally’s dark eyes scan him as she tilts her head to the side and a smirk pulls up the corners of her mouth. “He’s gone... Your little friend. Not here no more.”

“Where?” Sherlock bristles with anxiety and frustration. His cheeks are hot, he is out of breath and his hair is clinging damply to his forehead. He’d run all the way back to Lauriston Gardens, his own growing terror driving him on. He is in no mood to deal with Sally’s attitude.

Sally shrugs and roll her eyes away. “Away from you. Fast as he can, if he has any brains. You left ‘im and then he left you. For good, I suspect… at least if he took my advice.” Her head tilts back and her smug satisfaction grows as she bares her teeth in something more like a snarl than a smile. “You’re not his friend, though… Freak like you.” Her shoulders pull back, chest thrown out in challenge. “You don't have friends.” She is still smarting from the earlier encounter and itching for him to give her a reason to throw a punch.

The sharp edges of guilt, anxiety and anger are saw blades whirring and shredding Sherlock's insides. In this moment he can understand crimes of passion. The dark desire to destroy the ugly, hateful creature before him surges through him and his primal brain screams that it would be deliciously satisfying to choke the breath out of her. However, he knows it would solve nothing. John will still be gone. 

“Do shut up, Sally.” Sherlock turns to leave, his mind racing. John could be _anywhere_ now and, while he is a highly capable man, there are very real dangers that are greater than the soldier can be expected to conquer alone. Furthermore, it is unlikely he wants to be found. He no doubt hates Sherlock for luring him out on a case only to abandon him. 

Everything is now cast into bleak shadows and muted tones. His legs are heavy. His shoulders slump under the weight of the earth pulling him in, trying to swallow him up. The wind is bitter against his cheeks and he turns up his coat collar. 

_He’s lost everything._

“What? No witty comeback?” The sheer dark delight in Sally's tone is claws on a chalkboard, rattling on every nerve of the generally impervious detective. She is a shark and Sherlock’s blood is in the water. “All out of party tricks? Or perhaps I hit a nerve. Don’t tell me the psychopath actually has feelings.”

“Sergeant Donovan.” Sherlock turns to her with a cold flame of desolation ready to be unleashed and leave nothing but ash in his wake. 

She shifts back, and folds her arms over her chest. 

Sherlock’s eyes fall on the CCTV camera on the building over Sally's left shoulder. It is pointed up and away, taking in a view of the night sky. His eyes snap to the other cameras on the street. They are all facing in directions which fail to observe anything of import. 

_Mycroft._

Equal parts relief and fury tangle and pull taut inside Sherlock. “Perhaps if you were a little less fixated on me you would be better at your job and I wouldn't have to do it for you.” He briskly turns away, pulling out his phone and rapidly typing out a text. Donavan’s jeers behind him are nothing but static as he strides down the street.

> Give him back. -SH

> Hello, Sherlock. Is there something I can do for you?

> Give him back now, Mycroft. -SH

> I have no idea what you are talking about, brother mine. 

> Sod off, you nosey bastard.  
>  Let him go. NOW. -SH

Sherlock waits and waits. The seconds tick by agonizingly slow as Mycroft fails to respond. When he can wait no more he angrily types out a very dangerous message. _Mycroft has to know how serious he is._

> I will go dark again. -SH

The response comes almost instantly.

> Let’s not be dramatic, shall we? A pleasant chat was the only thing on the agenda.

> You expect me to believe that? -SH

> Believe as you wish, baby brother. He will go as he pleases, same as he came, in less than an hour.

Sherlock bows his head and lets out a long breath. No doubt Mycroft intends to intimidate and bribe John, the main tools of a government official. John may well want even less to do with Sherlock when he is released, but at least no physical harm will come to him as Mycroft’s _guest._ How long he will remain unharmed after he is released is a different matter. Sherlock pulls John’s phone out of his pocket and, after searching through the menu, locates the address he is looking for. He moves out of sight of Donovan, pays the member of his homeless network to get the pink case back and hails a taxi. He slides into the cab, throwing a note at the cabbie with the directive to ‘step on it.’

_______________


	5. The Best Condition or Degree (Pink): Part 3

Sherlock’s lips part around a deep inhalation and his eyes open wide as the door swings open and, with a click, the room floods with light. The sharp intake of breath from the doorway mirrors his own. His heart is hammering in a violent frenzy against the inside of his chest in contrast to the mask of serenity he is hiding behind. 

He is lying on his back on the narrow bed. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling above. His coat and suit jacket are off and his shirt sleeves are unbuttoned and pushed up his arms. He presses the palm of his left hand more firmly onto his right forearm just below the elbow. The surge of chemicals pumps through his system, spreading like fire chasing gasoline along the inside of his veins, igniting in his chest and exploding across his brain. He relaxes into it, sagging slightly into the mattress. The sheets are cool against his warm flesh. They smell of John.

Feet scrape over the floorboards and the door hinges cry out faintly, before the wood on wood thud tells Sherlock the door is closed. He waits, tracing cracks in the plaster of the ceiling with his eyes. 

Stillness and silence.

John is hovering like a phantom in his peripheral vision. The chaos of emotions that clouded Sherlock’s mind earlier has had time to cool, turn to hard stone and sink into the pit of his stomach. He can ignore it. He can’t, however, ignore John. 

He lets his eyes drift closed and steeples his hands below his chin, trying to focus and balance himself. 

Everything feels fragile now.

Sherlock has never been good with fragile things.

The steady breathing of two seems too loud in the small room. He is beginning to lose the natural rhythm of it. He can’t quite remember what _normal breathing_ is suppose to sound like. 

Before the lack of words can grown into a chasm of nothingness that permanently divides them he sighs noisily; the gentlest way possible to break the silence. Air without form but slightly more meaning than breathing alone; it is an open invitation for John to speak first. 

“Not every day I come home to find a man in my bed.” John’s voice, like his face, has the astounding capacity to hold a multitude of emotions simultaneously. Now there is humour and confusion with an undercurrent of exasperation.

Relief floods Sherlock’s system at the break in silence. It rises through his chest and forces out another exhale that is more than a normal breath and too much less than words to be useful. He swallows and tries for calm composure.

“It was the only comfortable place to lie down.” Sherlock wills his tone to a low smoothness, absent of anything offensive. He mustn’t upset the delicate balance that somehow finds him not being unceremoniously hauled out of the ex-soldier’s bedsit upon first sight. 

Footsteps move across the room to the desk and there is the snick of the laptop sitting on it being shut. A pause and then the quiet scrape of plastic over the wooden desk; John’s phone being picked up. Sherlock left it as a peace offering. Fabric rustles as John shoves his phone in his pocket. 

“Right.” The floorboards creak quietly under John’s feet as he steps closer. His breathing is a bit unsteady now, more deliberate. A tingle of fire travels through Sherlock; a wave of sensation that can only be an instinctive reaction to the slow sweep of dark blue eyes over his prone body.

John lets out a slightly harsher breath through his nose and turns away. Sherlock hears him pick up the toppled desk chair and right it. 

“So this is the bit where you _search the victim’s flat and electronic devices?_ ”

Sherlock hums noncommittally. He can't exactly concede that point, though it would be simpler if that were the case. The truth is far more _messy_. It was not his usual unwavering focus on solving a case that brought him here. He'd come to John's bedsit because he needed to find and protect John and it would be foolish to expect that John would return to 221B after the events of the evening. 

Once within John’s bedsit, Sherlock found himself waging an internal war. Curiosity and the need to gather more data to solve John’s case on one side and the fact that John was already likely mad and would surely object to further intrusion on the other. With little more than a glance around, he’d forced himself to lay down on the bed and wait.

His eyes open and focus on John. He lowers his templed hands slightly. “I suppose I should say that I did not make the mess.”

“Break in.” John grimaces and turns away, cursing under his breath as he looks around at the ransacked flat. He sighs and walks to the window. He leans out and gestures to someone on the street below.

“What’s wrong? What are you doing?” A sudden panicked wave of betrayal floods Sherlock and he sits up, swinging his legs off the bed,.

“Nothing... Waving off a ride.” John’s jaw tightens as he shuts the window.

“A ride?” Sherlock sweeps his eyes over John, taking in his tense posture.

“Yeah... Met a friend of yours.” John continues to gaze out the window.

“A _friend_?” Sherlock drawls, confused. He doesn't have any friends and he thought Mycroft had taken John. Nothing about Mycroft and his relationship met any definition of friendly he could conjure.

“An enemy.” John’s brow furrows. “Your arch-enemy, according to him.” He turns towards Sherlock. “Do people have arch-enemies?” He swallows and he flexes his fingers. The experience is clearly troubling him. Some mysterious, well-off stranger has already murdered him once today, he is no doubt at his limit of tolerance for unknowable and unreachable threats. 

Sherlock considers this for a moment. _’Enemy’_ is closer to the truth.However, everything Mycroft reveals or hides is strategic manipulation. Since Mycroft apparently did not tell John that they are brothers, Sherlock has no doubt that withholding this and setting himself as an enemy is part of Mycroft's intimidation tactic; attempting to scare John away with some vaguely defined, ominous and all-powerful threat. 

What is Mycroft’s game? How much does his brother know about John?

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock narrows his eyes on John. 

“Yes.” John’s expression has darkened. His lips are pursuing slightly and he is studying Sherlock thoughtfully.

“Did you take it?” Sherlock shifts forward a little. If John took the bait, he has just made a new mess for them. Being on Mycroft’s payroll is akin to ownership; selling your soul to the devil. It can only end badly.

“No.” John’s eyes narrow and his brow furrows. 

A little bubble of relief makes Sherlock's lips curl upward. His body relaxes slightly. Of course John is too good a man for Mycroft to sink his talons into so easily. Mycroft tried to gain control over this new potential threat and failed. The approach suggests he underestimates John’s character and perhaps does not yet know what John’s motivation is in being with Sherlock. 

Sherlock can’t let himself or John be bothered by Mycroft’s attempts at subversive intrusion. Since he won't try to take John under his employ again (Mycroft hates repeating himself) they must prioritize. 

“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.” He grins up at John. The tilt of his head and lift of his eyebrow is calling on John to find that dark sense of humour that they’ve shared for the absurdity of this ‘not normal’ world he has been plunged into. 

John barks a single laugh and the orange street light colors his amused expression as he turns back to the window. His shoulders relax slightly. 

“Who is he?”

Sherlock rises to his feet, spine straight and shoulders back to signal to John that they are going into battle. “The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not our problem right now.” 

“Mhmm.” John lifts his chin and falls into a military parade rest stance: feet shoulder length apart, back straight and hands clasped behind his back. “What is our problem now, then?” His eyes adhere to Sherlock, beneath the fierce determination they are warm and open. 

“You, John.” Sherlock lifts his eyebrows at John. “Solving your case.” 

John’s mouth ticks up at one corner. “Right.” His eyes narrow and scan over Sherlock. They stop at his right arm. He steps forward, his expressions darkening. “Is that… nicotine patches?” 

Sherlock pulls up his sleeve on his right arm, revealing the three round nicotine patches. “It’s a three-patch problem.” 

John's jaw tightens and his eyes harden. Sherlock swallows around a sudden swell of guilt and humiliation. He hadn't considered how the doctor would feel about his potentially unsafe use of chemicals to enhance his thought processes. He'd only thought of the need to solve his case. 

“Helps me think.” He quickly rolls down his sleeve and buttons it. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.” He loudly clicks the ‘k’ on the last word for emphasis.

“It’s good news for breathing.” John frowns as he looks more closely at Sherlock. 

“Oh, breathing. Breathing’s boring.” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively.

John’s expression lightens marginally. “Lot less so when you want to and can’t.” The conversation dies for a few moments as Sherlock straightens and buttons his sleeves, feeling the heat of John's eyes on him. He is still wearing the too-tight shirt with the mud splatter and when he finishes buttoning his sleeves he tries to smooth the wrinkles from it with his hands.

John clears his throat. “What have you got?”

Sherlock looks up at him. He has fallen back into military parade stance, but his cheeks have taken on a pinker hue and he seems to be struggling to hold something softer in check. 

“The important question is what have _you_ got, John.” Sherlock strides towards John. The warm thrill surges through him that he is finally able to close the distance between them. He looks down into his eyes. “What your killer wants is here, in your bedsit.” Sherlock turns to the room, hands cast out, scanning it. “They’ve made it look like a break-in this time, but this is not the first time they have been here. They likely anticipated contact from their contract killer by now and they are getting nervous and desperate.” Sherlock turns back to John. “That is good for us.”

“It is?” John tips his head and looks up at Sherlock. 

“It is. Desperate people are even stupider than normal. Desperate people _make mistakes._ ” Sherlock leans forward, a dark thrill unfurling inside him. “I need to know your secrets, John.” 

John blinks rapidly a few times. His eyes narrow and they travel down Sherlock’s face and then back up again. “What do you want to know?”

Sherlock leans back, surprised. He had not actually anticipated John being so open. He'd thought he would have to overrun the ex-soldier's defenses and pull the truth out of him, as he does with anyone else. He was prepared, even a little eager for the battle. As he turns and moves to the center of the room, he shakes of the disorientation of John's unexpected surrender. 

“You have a place where you keep things of value. Some place secret. With a lock.”

John nods. “Wall safe in the kitchen.” Sherlock moves swiftly to the kitchen. John moves past him to the little bathroom. He returns with his army medical kit. He opens the bag and fishes out a key, holding it up for Sherlock to see. 

Sherlock feels his lips pulling upward. One would not think to look in a medical kit for a key to a man’s most precious belongings, unless one knew Doctor John Watson and saw how significant practicing medicine has been to him. If the ex-army doctor had to leave the bedsit forever and only had time enough to grab one thing, it would likely be his med kit or whatever might be in that safe. 

John sets his med bag on the kitchen table and moves over to a small false cabinet door. Many of the cabinet doors are hanging open with their contents strewn all over, but this one is conspicuously closed. The thief was so intentional in trying to hide that the safe is the real target that he made it rather obvious. 

“Found it by accident, really. Don’t keep much in it -” Before John can open the safe Sherlock puts up a hand to stop him. 

“May I?”

John nods and drops the key into Sherlock’s upturned hand. He steps away and Sherlock moves to face the safe. He examines the exterior carefully. There are deep gouges both by the lock and around the edges of the metal safe where it has been built into the wall. Someone had attempted to break the lock and, when that failed, had tried to pry the safe out of the wall. Sherlock slips the key in and turns it carefully.

When he opens the door a wave of confusion overtakes him. 

_This isn't right._

It is mostly empty. There is a small box of ammunition, but the main item is a larger, plain, green metal box. Sherlock pulls it out and peers inside. He falters, his hand hovering. 

There are tags inscribed with John’s name and rank. _Captain John Watson._ There is a small clear bottle with some shrapnel in it. Below these a younger John Watson in army fatigues and a bare chest is grinning back at Sherlock from a photograph. He is leaning back against a brown stone wall with a gun slung over one shoulder. There are other men in the photo but Sherlock can only see John; skin a few shades darker and glistening with sweat. His face is transformed; brighter and harder with an intense fire in his eyes.

Sherlock swallows and nudges the first photo aside. The next photo was taken at night. John is sitting at a folding card table in a plain gray vest with warm yellow light spilling over him. He is laughing so hard that he is suspended in the act of toppling backwards. 

Sherlock clears his throat and looks up. John is staring at him, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. He rubs at the back of his neck, looking down at the floor. 

“You were right about that. _Nothing of value._ Just some old army things. Not really worth anything to anyone but me.” John reaches out and Sherlock relinquishes the box. He stares into the empty safe, blinking rapidly in an effort to reset his brain.

“No.” Sherlock sways slightly. The room is spinning. Everything is _wrong._ “That doesn't make sense, John. There has to be _something_ -” He leans into the safe, running his hands along the inside. “It's here. It has to be _here_ -”

John sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “D’know… maybe it’s just a mistake - weren't really after me, maybe.”

“No.” Sherlock steps back from the safe, head bowing and hands lifting towards his hair. He is untethered; adrift and the panic is swelling. “They killed you, John. For what was in _here_. What was in this safe. It’s important-” He gestures emphatically at the safe. “It’s clear. So obvious.” Sherlock's voice is rising as he steps towards John. All the data slices now; sharp edges cutting at him. It whirls, crashes and collides. He pulls it all apart and tries to reassemble it but it keeps tangling. He can't make it fit. He can't make it work. His heart is hammering. His vision is narrowing. John is slipping away. 

_Such a delicate balance between everything and nothing._

“You okay?” John's eyes are too soft. It stings. Every fiber of Sherlock screams in protest at the idea of being seen as weak.

“Of course I'm okay.” It sounds vicious even to his own ears. He is _not_ ok. Everything is wrong. “There's nothing wrong with me.” Sherlock shoves his fingers into his hair and pulls because isn't that the most obvious lie he could possibly say? Of course there's something wrong with him. He's never been anything but wrong. His very nature makes him a freak and mockery of all that is natural about the world. But at least he could always rely on his intellect. Now even that is failing him.

“It’s all right. Okay? We’ll figure it out.” John's eyes are patient and he is looking up at Sherlock with his hands out in a placating gesture. “Let's just think it through here…” 

“No, John. I see it. I see everything and it's _not there._ ” It is all beyond Sherlock's grasp. He is drowning in his own thoughts. Everything is sliding away. He is desperately reaching for some truth to hold onto.

“I _am_ fine. You want me to prove it. _Fine._ Let's start with you.” Sherlock moves closer to John, pinning him down with his eyes, dissecting him. “First bit is easy. I’ve already explained. Haircut and the way you carry yourself. Soldier. Knew it the first moment I saw you. Doctor. That was soon clear too by your hands. More to it though. Invalided home, clearly. There is the limp. A psychosomatic limp. Could see that straight off too. Really noticable when you walked but when you stopped to look around you forgot about it. What does that tell me? Wounded in action and the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic.”

“Personal life. Clearly not in a relationship. Limited extended family. Poor relationship with your alcoholic brother who is getting a divorce.”

“How... did you know that?” John swallows. His eyebrows are pulled down and he looks worried. His eyes are flicking over Sherlock and it is clear the verbal attack is starting to draw blood. 

“I don't _know_ , I _see_ , John.” Sherlock’s mind is spinning, careening like a car with no brakes towards a crash. Sherlock spins away and paces the floor. “Observe. Deduce. Gather data and form the only logical conclusion from the facts. The man who killed you. Contract killer. Linked to numerous cold cases. Always the same. One knife wound. Abdominal aorta severed. 9 inch serrated blade. Never robbery, though, and never returning to the scene. It’s right there. The break in pattern. He had two jobs; kill you _and_ steal the key. They thought you had the key on you. He waited -” Sherlock freezes; everything turning crystalline as a new piece of the puzzle slides into place.

“Oh!” He spins on his toes, hands cast out towards John who freezes. “Oh! Oh! That's clever!” 

“What, Sherlock? What's clever?” John’s face is a mixture of confusion, awe and excitement as he steps towards Sherlock. 

“Is it clever?” Sherlock's brain stutters as doubt creeps in at the corners. He casts about, seeking confirmation; scrutinizing the conclusion from every angle. He can't be wrong. “Yes. Of course. It's clever. So clever.” He claps his hands together and presses his fingers to his lips, the excitement mounting. He whirls around to face John.

“Phone. Your phone, John. I need your phone.” Sherlock rushes towards him, hands reaching. He stops abruptly only an arm’s length away.

John's eyes are wide and his body is stiff, braced for the impact of Sherlock touching him.

He'd almost _touched_ John.

_So careless. So stupid._

The sinking feeling is so sudden and powerful on the heels of the euphoria of a moment earlier that Sherlock can only stand there, frozen in motion, hand hovering in the space between them. He draws back, sucking in air as he takes two steps backward and clasps his hands behind his back in an act of self-restraint. He straightens his spine and blanks his features.

“May I borrow your phone, John?” 

John gives a sharp nod and fishes his phone out of his pocket. He looks down at it a moment, then carefully places it on the desk and takes a step back.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock scoops it up and immediately unlocks it. He opens the last email John read. Sherlock scrolls through the thread of correspondence as the words spill out of his mouth.

“He waited. How'd he know to wait, John? How did he know you would be _there_? Only one way to be certain. Someone ensured it. Someone _lured_ you to that alley to meet your murderer. Before you turned into that alley you were looking for something - looking at your phone. Looking at this-” Sherlock turns the phone to John displaying the last email.

> 2 Gunman Road. 3pm. We’ll meet then. -M

“Oh. Right. Was meeting a bloke about a flatshare... Couldn't find the place.” John's eyes narrow on Sherlock. “Wait. Hold on now. You-” He tilts his head, his brow scrunching in obvious consternation.”You were watching me… _before_?”

Sherlock turns away, to hide the heat creeping into his cheeks. He can't afford to get distracted now. “You could not find it because that address doesn't exist. _‘M_ ’ set you up.” He lets the ‘p' pop on his lips. A tingling thrill is building in his spine, the simple pleasure of pulling a thread and watching a tangled mystery unravel. “Walked you right into a trap.” Sherlock smiles to himself as he begins to quickly tap out a message. “So let's set one of our own.”

“Are we sure M and the Russian aren't the same guy. I mean... we only e-mailed.”

“No, John. The email string. The phrasing. The spelling. Clearly British. The vocabulary and the subtle manipulation of his communication. Intelligence. Well educated. M is the man behind your murder. And this is how we catch him.” Sherlock turns the phone around again to show John. He's created a new email address and composed an e-mail to ‘M'.

> SUBJECT: Found.  
>  MESSAGE: Collect the package. 2 Gunman St. 11pm.

“Anyone else will just ignore a message like that. But, the man who hired your killer... A man _that_ desperate…” Sherlock slides the phone closed with a snap of finality. “He'll come.” He shoves John's phone in his trouser pocket and rushes to the bed. He pulls the small pink suitcase from underneath and places it on top of the bed, leaning over it.

“What are you doing?” John steps forward, then freezes. “That's not- That's - _Is that?_ ” His eyes go wide and he staggers slightly in shock.

“The case. _Her_ case... Jennifer Wilson’s. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.” 

“No. That's not mine - I didn't -” John lifts his hands and takes a step back, his face full of alarm at a dead woman’s case being discovered under his bed. 

“No. I did.” Sherlock quickly unzips it and throws open the lid, revealing the contents. It was hastily packed. There is a wash bag and a paperback novel entitled _’Come To Bed Eyes’_ on top, and below that is a layer of clothes in an assortment of pink.

John looks wary; his eyes dart from the case to Sherlock and back.

“Oh. No.” Sherlock says straightening up. “Not the murder. However, I brought the case here, John” Sherlock watches John carefully.

“No. Right... but…” John hesitates, shifting from foot to foot, his jaw working.

“Why?”

“We've got a few hours before meeting your murderer in Peckham, might as well catch a serial murderer as well.” He grins up at John. Then stops and chews his lip, a little ball of anxiety twisting in his stomach. Bringing evidence from a crime to John's flat is probably _a bit not good._ He'd come straight from finding it to John’s apartment without really considering this part.

John runs his eyes from Sherlock's hand, on the suitcase, to his face. He just stares at him a moment, then he relaxes as his expression shifts to a small smile. “How'd you find that?” 

“By looking.” Sherlock returns John’s smile. “I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens. Anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed.” Sherlock grimaces with the reminder of that bitter sweet moment of at last finding it only to turn to John and discover he wasn't there. 

“But… how'd you know-”

“It was clear she never made it to the hotel. She came from the train with her bag and her killer drove her to her final resting place. The case was not with her so it must be in the car. The killer kept it by accident. A case in this color is pretty conspicuous. He'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. Took me less than an hour to locate it.” Sherlock keeps his eyes down, studying the contents and trying not to think about how that hour had almost lost him John. 

“Fantastic.” John pulls out the desk chair and sits down in it heavily, obviously beginning to feel worn down by the events of the day. 

Sherlock's skin is too warm again at the easy compliment. He blinks and tries to refocus. He scans the bag and sweeps his hand across the top, feeling for a hard object beneath the clothes. Then he settles back and glares at the case, willing it to provide the missing answers.

“Now, look. Do you see, John?” Sherlock points at the case. 

“I see a bloody lot of pink.” John leans forward so his elbows rest on the top of his knees.

“No. Do you see what’s missing?” 

“How can I see something that is missing?”

“Her phone, John. Where’s her mobile phone?” Sherlock’s mind races. “Professional woman in the media, you know she had one. There was no phone on the body. There’s no phone in the case...”

“Dunno.” John shrugs. “Maybe... left it at home.”

“She has a string of lovers. She’s careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home.” The words shoot out of Sherlock before he has time to consider them. He looks up and John is lifting an eyebrow at him. He swallows and looks away, feeling the color drain from his face at the reminder of his own loss of control that compelled him to drag Mrs. Wilson’s infidelity out into the light. 

“No. Think, John.” Sherlock begins to pace back and forth across the room again. His mind is whirling. He is getting flustered. 

“Lost it?” John’s eyes narrow on Sherlock. “Maybe was nicked, like the wallet.” He tips his head and looks pointedly at Sherlock's right trouser pocket where he'd slipped John's phone. “Some people have a habit of that.” John’s smile ticks up on one side and he lifts his eyebrows with something between amusement and scorn.

Sherlock slips his hand in his pocket and curls it around John's phone. His mind is drawn back to when John first called him out on stealing it and the reasons he'd kept it. The insight strikes in a flash.

“Oh!” Sherlock lifts his hands. “That's brilliant! Brilliant, John!” He is moving frantically now, driven into motion by the surge of thoughts ripping through his brain; a new universe of possibilities revealed before him. He can barely contain himself. He wants to jump for joy, dance, shout and hug John for giving him the insight. But he can't do that so he just spins a little circle, fists clenched.

“Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! Do you see? Do you get it?” He is standing over John, trying to get him to understand. John is staring up at him in shock, confusion and disbelief, as if Sherlock might be insane. Sherlock wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. It seems so clear now, how can he _not_ see it? He draws back slightly and tries again. 

“She didn’t lose her phone, John. It was never stolen. For that matter, neither was her ID. If someone had robbed the body before the teenagers discovered it they would have taken her jewelry as well. No, Ms. Wilson was efficient, organized and used to traveling, so she kept her ID in a wallet that held her phone as well. And where did her phone go?” Sherlock smiles broadly. “Tracking. Tracking! Do you understand?

John rises to his feet and walks to the suitcase. “Alright.” He rests his hands on his hips. “How?” 

“Rachel?”

“Rachel.” John rubs at his chin. “Was that her killer maybe?”

“No. Her killer was male. Statistically more likely for a serial killer and she confirmed it. First thing she did was curse him as a bastard, _not_ a bitch. So, she was dying, angry and was trying to tell us something. She scratched this one word on the floor, _Rachel._ It took effort. It hurt. If you were dying ... if you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?”

“Please, God, let me live.” John’s face is fixed in a forced neutrality as he stares Sherlock in the eyes.

“Oh, use your imagination!” Sherlock snaps in frustration feeling John surely must be mocking him at this point with his resistance to following the logic.

“I don’t have to.” John's voice is lower, his face is somber, his eyes have drained of light and have fogged with that dark memory.

Sherlock swallows, feeling the floor drop. He blinks a couple of times, shifting his feet. John’s expression stings. The room feels too hot and all the sudden too intimate as he is caught up in John’s eyes and dragged back to that moment with him laying there alone in that alley praying for one more chance to live. The desperation and stubborn refusal to give up as he lay there with eyes open to the sky and a hand cast out; reaching... for Sherlock that would fulfill that silent request moments later.

And now those warm eyes are staring up at him as if he is the answer to everything. A cold shudder brakes Sherlock out of John’s hold. His hand hurts and he realizes it has slipped into his pocket and is clutching John’s phone so tightly that the joints ache. He releases it and turns away, templing his hands below his chin. He feels himself trembling internally but his hands are remarkably steady. Years of practice in subverting his emotions is paying its dues. 

“Yeah, but if you were _clever_ , really clever… Jennifer Wilson; a reporter accustomed to covering crimes - doing whatever it takes to get the story. A woman who ran all those lovers: she was _clever_.” 

Sherlock presses his hands to his lips as he paces back and forth. This woman was clever in the way Mycroft is clever. Which is to say, skilled in manipulating situations and people to her benefit. A skill Sherlock never possessed himself but that he has had plenty of opportunity to observe in action. 

“She planted her phone on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer. So we could track it and therefore him.” Sherlock turns back towards John.

“Don’t you see, John. Rachel!” Sherlock steps towards John and waits for realization to light his face. John just blinks at him. “Rachel!” He repeats and waits three agonizing heartbeats of silent incomprehension. Then he spins away in frustration when John only continues to stare. He is standing, pointing right at it and still John can't see the world the way he does. “My god, what must it be like in your funny little brain?” Sherlock mutters in frustration. “Rachel is not a name.”

“Then what is it?”

Sherlock sits down at the desk and flips open John's laptop. When the password screen comes up he looks back at John, considering him for a moment, before typing in a password and watching the computer open. He hears John draw in a breath of surprise and he smiles to himself.

“Read me the email on her luggage tag.” Sherlock navigates to the website as he listens to John move across the room to the bed.

“Jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.”

“Phone number?” Sherlock rapidly keys it in. 

“072-2243-3688”

“Oh, I’ve been too slow. Professional woman. She did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone. It’s e-mail enabled. It’s got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. Now, the password is?”

“Rachel.” John walks over to stand behind him.

Sherlock sighs, uncertain if it is the relief of John finally catching up or if it is because John is standing so close now, leaning over him to look at the screen, that he can feel the heat of him radiating against his shoulder. “She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.”

Sherlock springs up, away from John. As he moves to put on his suit jacket and coat, John sits down on the chair which Sherlock vacated and watches a clock spinning round on the website. It claims that the phone will be located in under three minutes.

“We’re gonna have to move fast. The phone battery won’t last forever.”

“Police? Lestrade?” John turns towards him, glancing at Sherlock's pocket which still contains his own phone. 

“No time. There is a murderer on the loose.”

“Sherlock, we can't just shoot whomever we find here and he's not just going to take one look at us and confess. That's... insane.”

“He has killed four people.” Sherlock shrugs feeling for the handcuffs in the folds of his coat. He has done this before. It will be even easier with John’s assistance. He feels a buzzing in his trouser pocket and fishes out John’s phone. His insides turn to ice and his heart stops in his chest as he reads the screen.

> **ERROR.  
> **   
>  Message undeliverable.  
>  Email address no longer exists.

The whole room tilts and sways around Sherlock. The email to M bounced back. He’s vanished. The one lead they had is now gone.

“Um… this doesn’t make sense. It says it’s here.” John’s voice is heavy with confusion. 

Sherlock stumbles towards the window, bracing himself on the ledge. “How can that be? _How?_ ” Everything feels distant. He is looking through a tunnel. 

“Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere.” 

Sherlock tunes him out. His eyes are on the street below, but he is unseeing. His brain is spinning so rapidly it is painful and his body feels like it is in free fall, plummeting to the earth below that window. Everything of the two cases is losing definition, overlapping, blurring together. 

_Predator stalking the shadows. Unseen. Hunting his victims. The unknowable enemy._

Sherlock’s vision clears and in the street below a man comes into focus. His head is tilted, his face looking up towards the window that Sherlock is looking out. He is leaning against a taxi. Sherlock's phone buzzes and he looks down at it. A text message appears on the screen.

  


> Message: 072-2243-3688  
>  COME WITH ME.

He looks down in the street and the cabbie holds up a pink phone and doffs his cap towards the window. Suddenly everything of the serial suicide murderer’s identity snaps into place. Sherlock can clearly see that same taxi pulling up beside each of the victim’s and them gratefully sliding in, never anticipating that the man at the wheel was to be the last they ever saw.

“Sherlock, you okay?

“Yeah, yeah, I-I’m fine.” Sherlock focuses vaguely on John. The killer is here, at _John’s_ apartment. Is it somehow related? Is John to be his next victim?

“Maybe… maybe something went wrong… I’m going to check it again.” The chair legs scrape over the wooden floor as John slides back into the seat and the keyboard begins its clickty-clack again. 

“Mmm. Good idea.” Sherlock is drifting on auto-pilot towards the door.

“Where are you going?

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment.” Sherlock opens the door and steps out. “Keep-Keep looking. Won’t be long.” He closes the door, sinks his chin to his chest and lets out a deep breath. His insides are shaking. He wants to collapse in on himself for all the massive failures of the last couple of hours since he met John but outside there is a murderer waiting. He is not going to let John down again. The cabbie will lead him to M and John will be safe.

_____________________


	6. The Best Condition or Degree (Pink): Part 4

Down, down, down the stairs and out onto the quiet street below. Sherlock’s breath hangs in the air as he moves towards the pool of light that the taxi driver is parked beneath.

“Taxi, Mr. ‘olmes.” The older man in a beige jumper and gray cap says leaning casually against the side of the cab. “Been waitin’.” The man’s smile is tight, dark and taunting; incongruent with his grandfatherly appearance. 

“I didn’t order a taxi.” Sherlock keeps his tone flat and disinterested as he scans the man. He is gathering in the data. All the pieces slide around, shifting into place in his mind. A leather cord around the cabbie's neck displays his London taxi driver’s license with the name Jeff Hope. The photo is perhaps two decades old. His posture speaks to several hours daily spent driving over the course of many years. All evidence points to a man in his profession as a taxi driver for years. This is not a trained killer assuming a role. 

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.” The cabbie grins, his eyes flashing with darkness and his tone ominous. 

Sherlock straightens his spine and stiffens his jaw. He has looked into the eyes of many murderers and he recognizes the cold, deadness; this man is a killer. He does it without remorse and he plans to do it again, soon.

“You know who I am?” 

“Oh, yes. I recognize you right away. Sherlock ‘olmes. The great consulting detective.” Sherlock blinks rapidly, his mind processing this. He is not well known. He keeps a low profile and even on the high profile cases NSY would loathe to give some consulting detective credit, so his name stays out of the papers. If someone knows of his work it is someone close; someone within NSY. There is a wolf among the sheep.

“You have me at a disadvantage, then. Who are you?”

“Me?" The cabbie's face twists with disgust and anguish "Nobody. Invisible. Just the back of an ’ead…” His grin returns, deeper and uglier, and he shifts eagerly. “Proper advantage for a serial killer.”

“You’re the killer.” Sherlock takes a step closer, hands closing around the cuffs in his pocket. He has no doubt that he can best the cabbie in a physical altercation. He will cuff him then do _whatever it takes_ to determine if the man is targeting John, if he is working for M, and who M is.

“You know I don’t blame ya for taking a while ‘bout workin’ it out.” The cabbie pulls his hand out of his pocket and it is clasping a pink wallet phone case. “No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. And you’ve been... _distracted._ ” Jeff squints up towards the window of John’s flat, his eyebrows lifted in interest. 

Sherlock’s insides plummet to his stomach like a broken elevator crashing to the bottom floor. He swallows and steps forward, glancing back at the building.

“Is the taxi for me?” He stares hard at the man, trying to discern who he is after.

“What do you think Mr. ‘olmes?” The cabbie opens the driver’s door and slides in. “Let me take you for a ride.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Sherlock leans down to look in the window of the cab. “I know your name and your license number. I can call the police right now and have you arrested.”

“You could Mr. ‘olmes.” Jeff turns to look Sherlock in the eyes and his lips are turned up in amusement. “An’ I’ll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit right here and wait with you, quiet, until they can take me down. I promise.” His smile deepens. “But you’re not gonna do that.”

“Why?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow on him.

“‘Cause if you do I will never tell you what you want to know, Mr. ‘olmes. You’ll never understand.” Jeff turns and looks ahead, his posture straight as he turns the engine on. “Won't know the why and the how...” He turns off his meter. “The _who._ ”

Sherlock blinks. The jolt of it singing through his veins and making his heart jump. This ordinary cabbie turned serial killer is somehow connected to something _much_ bigger. 

“No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.” Sherlock tries to appear indifferent, standing up as if to walk away. 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Jeff turns back towards him, leaning out the window. “People die all the time, Mr. ‘olmes, as you well know.” He looks up at the window of John's flat again. “What kind of result do you care about?”

Sherlock stops and turns around. He breathes out, the hazy cloud of crystallized breath obscuring his view. London is cold, her streets empty and indifferent to the life and death choices being made standing beneath a sickly pool of yellow light, looking into the eyes of a killer. Sherlock’s feels his weakness; his need to protect John Watson. He swallows. Clearly, he is at a very great disadvantage in this dangerous game.

“Why would I come with you? You’re going to kill me.”

“I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ’olmes. I’m gonna talk to ya ... and then you’re gonna kill yourself.” Jeff turns to stare calmly out the front window again.

Sherlock straightens up. There is a hard, cold mass forming in his stomach. His mind grapples with the situation. This may be his last chance to catch M before he comes for John again. 

Sherlock watches through the rearview mirror as the cabbie’s mouth turns up in a smile of satisfaction when he slides into the back seat. The door slams shut. He forces himself not to look back; not to feel that sense of dread and emptiness that whispers through him with the notion that he may have seen the last of John Watson. The taxi is swallowed up by the dark, cold night.

____________________

> The facts were these: Jeff Hope, a London taxi driver for 22 years, 9 days 4 hours and 52 minutes was dying of an inoperable heart condition. Any moment could be his last. The irony of his heart being the thing to do him in is not lost on the unexpectedly intelligent cabbie. Estranged from his children when his wife left him twelve years ago, he wanted nothing more than to leave them better off in his death than he provided for them in his life. That was when a mysterious sponsor offered to pay his children for each life he could take.
> 
> So Jeff Hope, mild-mannered cabbie by morning, became a serial murderer by night. A puppet. Flesh and blood, but hollowed out and with someone else’s dark and demented intentions poured inside him, pulling his strings and making him dance.
> 
> He picks up his victims, takes them to a site that he knows is open and has them choose between a gun or playing a game of Russian Roulette with poison in a glass of wine. The victims essentially take their own lives by selecting the wrong glass. 

Sherlock lifts the glass of wine in his hand to the light, examining the contents. Dark red, like blood, with little ripples radiating through it from the quiver of his hand. No evidence of powder, but Jeff _had_ said that it dissolved instantly.

“Don't worry, Mr. ‘olmes, this time it's the good stuff. None of that cheap stuff I used for the others. This is special. It’ll go down real smooth.” Jeff lifts his own glass and grins at Sherlock.

Sherlock closes his eyes and reflects on his choice. Jeff had poured them both a glass, taken the glasses behind his back and said he was putting poison in one. He then placed one in front of Sherlock and one in front of himself. He had said that Sherlock got to choose and whatever one he didn’t take Jeff would drink the other. The objective was to out think Jeff; to determine if he would give himself the poisoned glass or place it in front of Sherlock. 

_How does his mind work? Which would he think Sherlock would take?_

He selected the glass in front of the cabbie, but he can’t be sure if his actions could be predicted and if he therefore now holds the poised glass. 

It is a great weakness; Sherlock does not understand the inner workings of people. Not really. He cannot predict their actions, like Mycroft can. He can only trail behind them, discerning their actions in the aftermath. 

He runs through the outcome of each choice. If Jeff has the poisoned glass and Sherlock does not, then Jeff will reveal his sponsor before the poison takes full effect (so he says). If Sherlock has the glass of poison, and Jeff does not then he has said no one else (i.e. John) has to die. But of course if Jeff is clever he has somehow rigged the game. Perhaps they both have poison and Jeff is immune or has the antidote. Or perhaps the cabbie is suicidal and determined to take Sherlock out at all costs as a final harrah, so will gladly drink the poison as well. 

It is not as if Sherlock hasn't thought about dying before; wondering if the man that brings people back from the dead is even capable of of dying. In his darkest hours, before he'd become a consulting detective, when he'd turned to drugs as an escape from the loneliness and pain of his relentless thoughts, he had moments where he even invited it. Now, in three out of four scenarios, he will die. The odds are not his favor. However, in all scenarios John's safety is guaranteed. The only way he cannot guarantee John will be safe is if he walks away from the game. 

Sherlock wants to believe that his inevitable choice, which is not really a choice, is reasonable and logical. However, he knows it is far from it. That he cannot imagine walking away only to lose John is shocking. Somehow he always suspected his downfall would be _sentiment_. Mycroft is right, it is a characteristic of the losing side.

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at Jeff. He lifts the glass to his mouth as he watches Jeff lift his own. _Closer… closer… closer._

The sharp crack of the bullet through the window pierces the silence. Everything slows as Jeff lurches forward; blood spraying from a hole in his chest. The glass tumbles from Sherlock's hand. It shatters on the floor, exploding in a shower of dark red droplets and crystalline slivers. The cabbie's glass joins it a heartbeat later. Sherlock leaps over the table and looks through the bullet hole in the window. His eyes search the building beside them. A matching hole in the window of the room parallel confirms the origin of that precise shot. The room is dark and the light shifts across the wall as a door to the hall opens and closes just out of sight; the gunman slipping away.

Sherlock quickly turns back to the cabbie laying, sputtering on the floor. A pool of blood mixes with the wine beneath him.

“Who is it? Who is your sponsor?” Sherlock snarls, leaning down over him. His frustration and fear mounting as Jeff just stares up at him, eyes glazing as the life drains out of him. Sherlock moves his foot onto Jeff's shoulder and presses down on the wound on his chest. “You're dying, but I can still hurt you.” He grinds his foot down. Jeff wails but does not speak. 

Sherlock pulls his glove off. He leans down and his voice drops. “You know of my ability? I can bring people back from the dead. I can let you die and bring you back. I can bring you back again and again, make this pain stretch, lasting forever.” Sherlock lies. He hisses his threat into the dying man's face, watching Jeff’s eyes widen in fear. He presses his knee into the cabbie’s chest. “Tell me who he is.”

“Moriarty!” Jeff’s scream echos in the empty building. He gasps his last breath and is gone.

____________________

“So, the shooter. No sign?” Sherlock rises from his seat on the back of the ambulance to meet Lestrade approaching him. It has been all he can think about since the moment Jeff Hope took his last screaming breath.

“Cleared off before we got here... But a guy like that would have had enemies. I suppose one of them could have been following him.” 

“What have you got?” Sherlock narrows his eyes on Lestrade as the DI flips open his notepad. 

“Not much. The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a handgun.” Lestrade scratches his temple. “Kill shot over that distance.” He shrugs. “Professional killer.” He looks up at Sherlock, questioningly.

Sherlock presses his lips together and blanks his face. The facts confirm what he suspected, but Lestrade’s conclusion is absurdly faulty. Professional killers don't use handguns. Furthermore, the man that shot the cabbie didn't have the equipment of a sniper to steady and aim his shot, so his hands couldn’t have shaken at all. That he could make such a shot with a handgun means he is not just a marksman, he’s a fighter; acclimatised to high stress, violence and making life and death decisions in a split second. This is a man with a history of military service and nerves of steel. Most telling of all... the man that shot Jeff Hope and saved Sherlock’s life didn’t fire until Sherlock was in immediate danger. 

Sherlock scans the area, something warm flooding his body and making his knees shake. His heart jumps when he at last finds John standing some distance away behind the police tape, eyes sharp and vigilant in tracking Sherlock. John meets his gaze for a heavy moment and then turns his head away. He has his hands in his pockets, his head down. His face is hard and stoic; his jaw tight and his brow gathered in concern as he glances around uncomfortably. Lestrade turns to follow Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock turns back to the DI before he can start to ask questions.

“Well, it sounds like you've got this well in hand.” Sherlock turns briskly away, heading towards John.

“Where are you going?”

“To see my doctor.” Sherlock absently waves a hand as he moves away, entirely focused on the ex-soldier who is trying not to be too conspicuous in his concern.

“Wait. Ambulance is right there, Sherlock.” Lestrade says moving in front of him, his face drawn in concern.

“No.” Sherlock says waving him off. He hasn't meant to say that. Where had that come from? “I mean… I’m going home… ” _Hopefully not alone_. 

Lestrade looks him over thoughtfully. “They checked you out, right?”

“Yes. Yes.” Sherlock steps aside, moving around him. When Lestrade continues to eye him suspiciously, he makes his eyes a little heavier and his face lax. “It’s just… exhaustion…” When Lestrade continues to look at him suspiciously, Sherlock narrows his eyes and scowls at the older man. He straightens his shoulders. “Besides, I just caught you a serial killer..." Sherlock winces a little at the unamused expression on Lestrade's face that says he doesn't quite equate killing to catching. "More or less.” Sherlock glares at him.

“Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.” Lestrade smiles at him as he relents. The relief over having ended the case is evident in his face.

Sherlock’s stomach is doing somersaults as he moves quickly towards John. He can hardly feel his body moving, like he is simply surrendering to John's gravitational pull. 

“Are you alright.” John’s eyes are fierce and bright, but beneath the surface a kaleidoscope of emotions flicker and slide, ever shifting.

“Me? Yes, of course.” Sherlock's words come out breathy. He feels his chest squeezing and he clears his throat, trying to smooth himself out. 

“Good.” John gives a sharp, decisive nod and turns, walking away briskly. 

“John. John." Sherlock ducks under the police tape and gallops after him. John's shoulders are straight and his gait is stiff. He doesn't acknowledge Sherlock as the detective falls into step beside him. 

Sherlock is turning inside out. He his certain of his conclusion but, like the unexpected compliments, doesn't know how to handle it. Should he thank John? What exactly is the polite thing to say to a man that just killed for you after you'd wronged him so thoroughly; failing him time and again? There are things that need said but he can't quite pin them down with words. He is not good with these things and the usual words don't feel sufficient. He struggles to find something appropriate to say. 

“Nice shot.” 

John's lips purse and his chin tilts to the side. His pace does not slow. “Yep.” The word pops on his lip. He glances past Sherlock to a group of police officers on the other side of the crime tape. “Sergeant Donovan told me all about it. It’d have to be. From that window.” 

“ _You'd_ know.” Sherlock feels childish and small as John's eyes slide to him and narrow. 

“OK.” John slows a little. He looks Sherlock over and does a short nod of acknowledgement. “Right, then.” His expression says they are even now. He returns to his brisk gait. 

Sherlock's already twisted stomach drops and a nauseous sensation takes a hold of him. The ties are being severed.

“John.” Sherlock reaches out and grabs John by the wrist, moving in front of him as John pulls up short. Sherlock's heart races, it had bern instinct, he hadn't really thought this action through.

The ex-soldier is looking down at Sherlock's black, leather-gloved hand around his wrist. Sherlock swallows and lifts John's hand between them. 

“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers.” Sherlock studies John's hand. He remembers that brief touch of his fingertips brushing across that palm. He lifts his eyes to John and swallows down a sound at his expression.

John’s chin is tucked to his chest and he is looking up at Sherlock through his lashed from under a brow; fire and awe and cautious confusion swirling. 

“I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but I should like us to avoid the court case.” Sherlock tries to keep his voice even. 

John clears his throat and swipes his tongue over his lips. “Us?” 

Inside Sherlock is running, body vibrating, heart thumping wildly. He takes a deep breath; straining forward, reaching.

“Not quite sorted.” Sherlock takes a small step forward. He knows that it is too much for his eyes to shield it all, but he won't look away. Not this time.

“No. I guess I am not.” John’s posture straightens and he lifts his head to look in Sherlock's eyes directly. The left side of his mouth pulls up slightly.

“How'd you find me?” Sherlock's voice is doing things without his permission. It has dropped lower and has gained a rasp. 

John's smile spreads to his whole face. He pulls his arm, that is still in Sherlock's grasp, towards himself, drawing Sherlock closer. 

Sherlock's brain goes offline as John's free hand slips inside his coat. He's doesn't breathe, doesn't move, he is certain his heart doesn't even dare to beat as John's hand slips inside his trouser pocket. He can feel the heat and flex of knuckles through the thin fabric over his hip. 

John steps back, his phone in his hand. “Someone taught me how to track a phone.” He smirks up at Sherlock as he turns his phone in his hand then slips it into his own pocket. 

Sherlock feels heat, like warm hands, close around his neck and move up to his face. The tightness in his chest, the fire chasing through his veins and the bright electric storm across his brain is all too familiar and deeply unsettling. _He is addicted._ Quite without his permission his chemistry has been altered and his brain conditioned to crave that little bubble of euphoria that envelops him when John is near him. He lets go of John's wrist and steps back, trying to gather himself in. He turns and begins walking. John falls in step beside him.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock glances over at John. His eyes sparkle and Sherlock can hardly bear to look at him for more than a few seconds without his blood turning to molten lava. 

“Me? Yes. Of course I'm ok.” John's light smile has returned. His gait is relaxed now.

“I mean… you did just kill a man.” Sherlock narrows his eyes on John, measuring his reaction.

“That's-” His lips thrust forward and shift off to the side as he glances around. “That's true.” His eyes come to rest on Sherlock and they are the same as that photo of John in the desert with a gun slung over his shoulder; fierce and full of determination, conviction and purpose.

“He wasn't a very _good_ man-" 

Sherlock sucks in a breath. Maybe, just maybe, John would understand about Sherlock choosing to trade the Russian assassin's life for John’s. He opens his mouth to confess but is halted by John's hand flattening on the center of his chest and firmly shoving him back as the ex-soldier moves into his path.

“That's him.” John's military posture has returned as he stands between Sherlock and the potential threat. “That's the man that abducted me. Your arch enemy.”

Sherlock looks over John's head and sees Mycroft stepping out of his long, black car in his expensive and pristine suit. He is looking around with his chin held high. 

Sherlock looks down at himself; blood spatter now added to the mud on his shirt from yesterday and speckling his scuffed shoes and tattered, untailored trousers as well. All of the failures from this last 10 hours rise to the surface as an overwhelming sense of shame and incompetency wells up inside and his body starts to naturally slump, curling in on itself.

His eyes drift to John; his golden hair and strong back, his posture defensive as he prepares to protect Sherlock against a threat that has proven itself powerful and is otherwise unknown. Something new rises in Sherlock. Some of that confidence, passion and purpose radiates off of John and leeches into him He straightens his spine and steps out from behind John.

“I know exactly who _that_ is.” Sherlock strides over to Mycroft and stops, looking up at him with new strength and fierce determination. 

“So,” Mycroft’s eyes weigh Sherlock. His tone is overly pleasant; smooth and pithy, but he takes a single step back. “Another case cracked. How very _public spirited_... though that’s never really your motivation, is it?” Mycroft’s thin lips press into a mockery of a smile. He has suggested in the past, scornfully, that Sherlock is wasting his ‘talents' doing police work in a futile effort to appease his troubled conscious. He would much prefer to quietly leverage Sherlock's ability as a political tool; saving (or not saving) the rich and powerful to suit his political goals.

Sherlock looks over at John who is glancing around to gauge where the police are in case he needs to summon their help. He won't take the bait this time.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock moves into Mycroft’s space, knowing how uncomfortable it makes him. He has never really gotten over the fear that Sherlock’s touch might have some yet unknown effect on the living.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.” Mycroft casually adjusts backwards another step, but now he is against the car.

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.” Sherlock takes another step forward, smiling slightly.

“Always so aggressive.” Mycroft’s eyes flick over him. His expression tightens further. “Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” Mycroft lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Oddly enough, no!” Sherlock snaps the word. He steps back and starts to turn away. 

“This petty feud between us is simply childish.” Mycroft raises his voice as Sherlock begins to stride away. “People. Will. _Suffer_ …” He emphasizes every word so it is clear, just between the two of them, that it is a threat against John. His eyes sparkle with delight when Sherlock whirls around on him, pleased to have found a vulnerability to needle. “And you know how it always upset Mummy.” He smiles tightly, that almost nauseous smile that speaks of superiority, pity, disdain and a thousand other thinly veiled conclusions about Sherlock's inadequacies.

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath as his heart does an irregular skip and drop. His vision goes white on the edges. The last thing their father said to them was that Mycroft should take care of his brother and that it upset their mother when they fought. However, as far as Sherlock can tell, he is incapable of upsetting their mother as she has been coldly indifferent to his existence since his father passed away. 

“We have more in common than you like to believe.” Mycroft steps forward. His face is smooth but his eyes have an unnerving piercing and probing quality.

“No.” Sherlock growls. His control is slipping. His defenses are being overrun; crumbling. He can't lose control and let Mycroft win.

“No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?” John steps forward, frowning.

“Mother –” Sherlock focuses on John, forcing himself to breathe slowly and to pull himself back from the edge by noticing every aspect of the ex-soldier; stormy, gray-blue of his eyes, tilt of his head, straightness of his shoulders, dimple on his chin, first shadow of hair growth bristling along his jaw. “Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.” He turns back to Mycroft with his eyes sharp.

“Putting on weight again?” Sherlock settles, squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands behind his back, somewhat mirroring the competent, self-assured stance he has seen in John.

“Losing it, in fact.” Mycroft grimaces and looks Sherlock over uneasily.

“He’s your brother?” John steps forward with eyes wide in disbelief. 

“Of course he’s my brother.” Sherlock watches John closely, trying to discern his feelings about this revelation.

“So he’s not…” John glances between them.

“Not what?” Sherlock’s brow furrows as he anxiously considers how John might feel about Mycroft not being something that they can conquer but rather something they have to tolerate.

“I dunno –” John shrugs and shifts on his feet. “Criminal mastermind?”

“Close enough.” Sherlock lets a small smile for John sift through his mask. The ex-soldier is perceptive and has good instincts. He directs a disparagingly look at Mycroft for his absurd games that failed this time.

“For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government.” Mycroft scoffs.

“He is the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” Sherlock turns his back towards Mycroft.

“Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic.” Sherlock walks away, confident that John will follow. 

“Sherlock... Good night, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft calls and it sends a cold shiver up Sherlock's spine.

He turns to look at John as they put some distance between themselves and Mycroft. They are nearly shoulder to shoulder in the wide street, moving as one unit. 

“You were gonna take that damned drink, weren’t you?” John’s face darkens a little as he looks sideways at Sherlock. 

Sherlock swallows around the clenching of his throat. “Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.” 

“No you didn’t…” John eyes him thoughtfully. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Donovan said it.... You get off on this. The danger." John's is doing a commendable job shielding something darker as he says this, but Sherlock can still glimpse the hint of that expression he had in the restaurant as he plunged his finger into the flame. "You risk your life to prove you’re clever.” John’s face is holds some concern, but also that twisted amusement of giggling at your own crime scene.

Sherlock glances back at Mycroft who is still watching them move away. He is leaning in towards his assistant and saying something as his eyes continue to track them. She lifts her eyes from her phone screen and looks after them as well. Sherlock has no doubt Mycroft intends to quietly tighten his hold.

“Why would I do that?” He shifts his eyes back to John.

“Because you’re an idiot.” John's eyes are full of fondness, his perfect pink lips curling. There is genuine care and acceptance.

Sherlock feels a bone deep ache. He wishes it was simple. It's not. Can never be. He forces a smile.

“Dinner?

“Starving.” John smiles back at him, keeping in stride as the serial murder, Mycroft, and everyone else falls away behind them.


	7. Hounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles with keeping his distance from his new companion as Henry Knight comes to Baker Street requesting help with an ancient family curse. He believes a giant hound claimed his mother when he was a child, frightened his uncle to death and now his fiancé is missing. He fears he is next, but Sherlock has his own demons to fight and his own mystery to unravel.

> Henry Knight is running, panting and rampaging clumsily through the gathering shadows of the quiet woodland. He is precisely seven years, five months, six weeks, nine hours and twenty-three minutes old. He stumbles repeatedly, turning his tear streaked face to look over his shoulder as the terror grows. Fear strangles desperate sounds from his chest. His vision is blurred and his mind is playing tricks on him as the sun sinks towards the earth. Pairs of glowing red eyes track him from every shadow. A root grabs at his foot and he smashes against the hard earth. He scrambles forward on hands and knees; sticks and sharp rocks tearing at his flesh. 
> 
> His mind flashes back to the terrible scene he has just witnessed; his mother in their garden, being attacked by... _something._. Enormous and black, the creature is ripping at her; growling and snarling ferociously. She is screaming and scrabbling at the ground as she tries to get away, crying out in terror as she is pulled off her feet. His mother crashes back down to the earth and falls silent. The creature lifts its terrible head and growls savagely. Young Henry turns and scrambles away.
> 
> Henry runs on, trying to get away from the horror. He runs and runs and runs until he falls to the earth in exhaustion, shaking and crying, waiting for the beast to claim him as well. _Just waiting._  
> 

___________

Sherlock's shiny shoes tap rapidly. His fingers twitch against the thigh of his navy blue, perfectly tailored suit. Everything feels stiff; his body is wound so tight that he is spring loaded. He moves his hand to rest against the side of his face, index finger against temple, middle finger tapping, then stroking across his lower lip; slower and slower. 

He wants a cigarette; needs to feel his lips curl around it, hold it in his mouth, let his tongue flick against it, take in the hot smoke, feel it burn as the fire curls inside his chest. 

Sherlock presses harder on his lip and feels the weight of that slender digit. _Almost._ Almost what he needs. It’s a start anyways. 

John has hidden his cigarettes. He should be able to deduce where, but he _can't_. Too little data, too much distraction and John has a _very good_ poker face when he makes the effort; must have spent a good amount of time gambling in the army… No, he was good at it even _before_ _that._ Used to hiding the truth and acting… it was a survival skill. Difficult childhood? Abusive parent? Yes, that aligns. John was the protector of his younger sibling; Harry - a sister, _not_ a brother. The ex-soldier never corrected Sherlock's deduction on that point... People like to correct the errors of others, but John didn't take the opportunity. Sherlock had to do some digging through online records to find Harry is short for Harriet. _Always missing something._ What else is he missing about John Watson?

He blinks and tries to focus on the task at hand. His eyes sweep over the man, Henry Knight, seated before him in the chair by the fireplace. _John's chair._ Irritation prickles at him and makes him shift in his seat. 

He doesn't like Mr. Knight. He looks benign enough; late thirties, brown hair and murky blue eyes, but he smells of old money. It clings to him like his overpriced cologne. It is a subtle, discreet wealth, like a dog whistle that only other well-off people are likely to hear. His plain jumper is at least 650 quid and his trousers cost 100 over that. His leather shoes are a month's rent at Baker Street. He talks slowly; far too used to everyone paying him special attention just because of the size of his bank account. He decidedly has no idea how _dull_ he really is.

Sherlock lets his eyes slide to the side, discreetly taking in the figure of John sitting beside him; legs crossed and a notepad on his lap, poised to take notes. _Left handed;_ that could have significance. A continuous variable with less than 10% of the population expressing strong left handed preference. 

But, no, not exclusively left handed. John shows signs of cross-dominance. He favors his left hand for some tasks and right hand for others. Left for writing and right for shooting. Left for drinking and right for… 

Sherlock halts his thoughts as heat floods his chest and crawls up his throat to his face. He should _not_ know _**that**_. He is certain knowing which hand John prefers when he pleasures himself is a bit _not good_. He hadn't come by the knowledge by nefarious means. He’d just observed John flexing his right hand, as if it were cramped, after Sherlock heard some rather suggestive noises while John was in the shower. How tight must John be gripping his…

Sherlock stops again and rewinds to the point where things started to de-rail. It helps if he thinks of these things in the abstract. Why is it so difficult to abstract John; make him into a collection of data points? 

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

Exceedingly rare; less than 1% of the population shows signs of cross-dominance. Does he have ‘mixed laterality’? Further study must be conducted to determine if eyes, ears, mouth and feet favor right or left side of the body.

Sherlock's leg is bouncing too now. His whole body is a mixture of rigid stillness and barely restrained rhythmic motion. All his parts moving faster and faster. 

_Foot tap, tapping. Finger stroke, stroking. Leg bounce, bouncing. Heart pound, pounding…_

Living with another person, living with John in particular, has been a lot more adjustment than Sherlock anticipated; an alarming, slow-motion invasion into all aspects of himself. There is no place to hide. Two weeks now and he finds himself daily failing to maintain a delicate balance between his all consuming curiosity and the need to defend his own wavering boundaries. He can find nothing to sufficiently distract himself from fascination with the ex-army surgeon; harpooning pigs, exploding eyeballs in microwaves, dissolving toes in lye - somehow his mind always comes round to John.

John is now leaning forward towards Mr. Knight with a small, warm smile on his face and his dark blue eyes sparkling. He's lapping up the other man's words like a kitten with warm milk. 

Sherlock is certain John is unaware of Mr. Knight's wealth. His refreshing lack of exposure to that elitist world was evident in the way he looked at Sherlock that first morning he came down the stairs and found the detective wearing a much nicer, expertly tailored and expensive suit. When he dons his finer suits (which he now does _constantly_ ) John’s eyes linger and there is an ingrained respect, almost as if Sherlock is suddenly wearing a general's uniform. It's rather thrilling. 

No, John’s attentiveness to this potential client is based on something else... Mr. Knight is confident, charismatic and his poetical waxing on about the Devonshire estate and his family’s dark and mysterious history is apparently appealing for the ex-soldier that has a propensity for romanticising things. 

_Attraction?_

Sherlock's eyes dart between the two of them for a few heartbeats. Mr. Knight pauses in his tediously drawn out recounting of a family curse dating back to the English Civil War, his mother's death and her disappearing corpse and the recent heart attack of his uncle to lift his cigarette to his mouth. His thin lips pucker around it as he inhales and Sherlock feels an ache of need so sudden and sharp that the spring inside him pops loose and he is on his feet; breaking John’s line of sight with Mr. Knight by cutting between them. He breathes deeply as he passes through the man's cloud of cigarette smoke, and sighs with some minor relief from the pain of want.

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder due to discovering the death of your mother as a child. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory, triggered by the recent death of your uncle. I'm afraid what you need, Mr. Knight, is not a detective or a gypsy to remove some ancient curse upon your family, but rather a better psychologist and some good medication.” Sherlock cuts through the kitchen, heading for his bedroom. He makes his tone light and nonchalant in contrast to the sharpness with which he wants to thrust his words at the man now captivating John’s attention, “Back to Devon with you. Good day… And thank you for smoking.”

“Sherlock.” John's voice is heavy with frustration as he rises to his feet. 

An invisible line snaps tight, pulling Sherlock up short. He jerks round to look at the ex-soldier. John's jaw is set, his lips thinned, his brow drawn; he's angry… _No_... he’s _disappointed._ Sherlock swallows as his stomach makes a sudden attempt to escape up his throat. 

John takes a single step towards him then looks down at Henry Knight who has turned in his seat to look back at Sherlock. The man’s cigarette hangs limply between the trembling fingers of his left hand as he glares at Sherlock.

“I am trying to tell you-”

“Yes, I know. The Devil’s own spectral hound, was it?” Sherlock scoffs, squaring his shoulders to John. What does the ex-soldier expect of him; to chase around after ghosts? That's absurd. Sherlock’s mouth twists with the bitterness rising from the pit of his stomach at constantly being a disappointment. 

“Are you mocking me, Mr. Holmes?” Henry Knight's voice rises from its droll, meandering tone for the first time as his whole body begins to shake.

“Why, are you joking?” Sherlock levels his gaze on Mr. Knight with a practised expression of cold indifference he mastered for this very reason; people so often misinterpret his expressions that it seems better to have none.

“I saw my uncle… _after_... it was _not_ simply a heart attack. If you had seen him, Mr. Holmes… He died with the most awful expression of horror on his face.” Mr. Knight shakes his head slowly, as his face contorts in an approximation of the fearful expression on his late uncle's face.

“Heart attacks are painful, Mr. Knight. Your uncle died in immense pain, not out of fear of some accursed hound.”

“Sherlock.” John's voice is low and husky, almost a growl of admonishment as his eyes narrow. Sherlock hardens his own expression and tries not to squirm under his gaze. 

“I know what I saw in the garden that afternoon, Mr. Holmes. It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes.” Mr. Knight's gaze drifts to John, and his eyes are haunted; looking through the ex-soldier. John grimaces, his jaw tightening, and he turns back to Sherlock with an expression of demand and determination. 

There is a thin, black tendril curling up Sherlock's spine, snaking into his brain and tugging loose childhood fears. 

In an attempt to understand his ability he had read extensively on death; every myth and religious incarnation in recorded history. His mind now barrages him with image after image of those ominous, hellish, supernatural dogs from mythologies around the world that had haunted his childhood nightmares. Death has some part in him, and so he had boxed all those dark and menacing forms and chose to imagine Death to be like wind and shadow; neither benign nor malignant, simply existing. Just as shadow exists because of sun and wind because of the rotation of f the earth, so too Death exists because Life exists. That Death's true nature may be a vicious, snarling beast stalking souls with deliberate malice shakes something at the very core of Sherlock. 

_The Death Hound is coming. Coming to get you._

Death first took claim on him in the form a dog, the resurrection of Redbeard, if Death is truly a beastly hound that would be almost… _poetic._

Mr. Knight shudders then rises to his feet, chest expanding, shoulders pulling back, chin tipping up and _there_ is the self-righteous indignation of a man accustomed to getting his way. “The threat is real. A man is dead. A woman missing. If you will not help me solve this mystery, Mr. Holmes, I fear you will be solving my murder.”

John and Henry are standing side by side now, and Sherlock tries to take them in, tries to focus, moving his eyes between the two men, but a darkness is overtaking him. That primal fear from when he was a frightened child all alone and haunted by death as an unknowable, constant companion, swells and surges.

“Cerberus. Moddey Dhoo. Black Shuck. Gwyllgi. Dip. Cŵn Annwn. Gabriel Hound. Yeth Hound. Gytrash. Shagfoal. Le Tchan du Bouôle. Cadejo.” The words are spit like rapid gunfire, gaining speed as Sherlock steps closer, his body winding tighter and tighter. “Boring. Predictable. Hardly original, Mr. Knight. Frankly, _absurd.”_

“There are people that have died, Sherlock.” John steps forward, his face flickering with so many emotions that Sherlock can't parse them. What he can discern is that beneath it all there is an undercurrent of old pain from the wounds of John's past. “His mother. She was killed. Her body disappeared... The uncle… it’s worth a look.”

Sherlock sets his jaw and looks down. It's obvious, isn't it? John is smitten with Henry Knight and he wants to spend more time with him. He can't know, likely doesn't care, what he is asking of Sherlock. If the Hound is all some elaborate ruse then Sherlock will be forced to witness their budding relationship, and if it is real... well that doesn't bear considering. 

Sherlock feels the bitterness crawling up his throat. It's not as if he is _not_ interested in John but... he can't risk it. 

“Fine. If you wish to traipse around the countryside chasing some spectre, John...” Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back, he is nearly seething with anger; at himself for growing attached to John, at John for all those warm looks and the touches that first day. He can't look at the man anymore. He fixes his eyes on Henry Knight. “I trust John to send me all the relevant data, as he will never understands a word of it himself.” Sherlock turns away as he hears John's little groan. He takes two steps away.

“Mr. Holmes!”  
“Sherlock!” 

The men bark simultaneously. Sherlock freezes, takes a breath, then slowly turns back to them.

“It is targeting my family.” Mr. Knight's eyes are wide, his whole body is trembling, seemingly caught somewhere between rage and terror with his voice near frantic. He brings his shaky hand to his mouth and takes a puff of his cigarette that is nearly down to the filter. As he lets the smoke out, he visually gathers himself in. 

“I don't know if you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find this so absurd and amusing.” He glares at Sherlock. “I am not a man that is prone to indulging the imagination. I am a practical man... Maybe a horrific experiment from that military base... Or some - some rabid wolf with rare, genetic mutations... I don't care what it is, just about stopping it… my family are all dead… and, as I was trying to tell you before you cut me off, my fiancé is now missing… it’s coming for me next, Mr. Holmes. I’m all that's left.” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, running them over Henry Knight surreptitiously. _Engaged_ , he'd missed that.

Mr. Knight steps forward. “In this vast universe there _are_ things that science has not yet explained - can’t explain… and maybe… _just maybe_ there are some things you don’t know, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift to John as those words land like a blow in the center of his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. There is so much he does not know: about his own ability, about Mycroft’s next move, about John, about John’s killer that still lurks, unseen, in the shadows. He is all confidence and bluster in front of NSY, Lestrade and clients because he knows he has to portray complete confidence in his ability or no one will even consider what he has to say. It is only calculated risk measured against inevitable failure with the desperate hope that what he gets wrong or does not understand is negligible in the end.

Sherlock’s mind moves through the facts he has been provided, arranging and rearranging them. He had received an anonymous email only three days prior with a trail of clues that reached a dead end, _quite literally,_ at that very base Mr. Knight had referred to as a potential source of the Hound. It was a cryptic account of a pet cemetery where people brought their dead pets to be buried. At least three family pets buried there had suddenly returned to their families, alive and none the worse for wear, within six months of their death. 

The author claimed that a Cynthia Stapleton had been seen on the property more than once and they believed her to be a Witch that possessed _‘powers of dark magic’_ and has been performing rituals to bring the dead to life. A quick search and a hack into the MI5 database found Doctor Cynthia Stapleton to be employed at Baskerville, a top secret military base rumored to perform experiments in chemical and biological warfare. Sherlock knows that he needs to get inside that base to determine if they have somehow engineered and weaponize his ability to revive the dead but he hadn't yet formed a plan on how to get out of London without leaving John unprotected nor how to do so without arousing Mycroft's unwanted attentions.

On the peripheral of his senses he is aware John is staring at him, waiting for an answer, as he is immersed in deep thought.

One heartbeat. Two. Three. Four. 

John sighs heavily, his face falling in disappointment. He marches over to the mantel and picks up the skull. He pulls the packet of cigarettes out from inside it and tosses them at Sherlock.

The sensation of the packet hitting his palm as he automatically catches it snaps Sherlock out of his retreat into his thoughts. 

“Going to have to risk it. There's no other way,” Sherlock concludes as he looks down at the packet in his hands. He tosses the pack over his shoulder and looks up at Mr. Knight. “I’ll take the case.”

“What?” John’s mouth falls open and his eyes go wide in shock.

Sherlock steeples his fingers and touches them to his chin. “This is very promising, Mr. Knight. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He begins pacing back and forth in front of the entrance to the kitchen. He needs to plan this out. He can't afford to mess it up.

“No. Hang on. I’m sorry but… _what?_ ” John steps towards Sherlock, his expression a mixture of exasperation, confusion and shock. “A moment ago this was _boring_ and _absurd_ and now suddenly we’re taking the case?”

Sherlock stops and slides his eyes to John for a moment, then he glances at the packet of cigarettes on the floor. The cold shock of realization over what almost just happened dawns on him. John had given up on him. Just like that, he’d stopped caring if Sherlock _‘smoked himself to death’_ and was ready to walk away with Henry Knight. It is a dagger plunging deep in his chest.

Things had been growing increasingly tense over the last few weeks. Sherlock insisted that it was necessary for John to keep to the flat for his own protection. For all they know the man who plotted his first murder has killers waiting for John to emerge from the relative security of 221B.

The ex-soldier had done little in the way of connecting to friends during his recovery. He had no job. He and Harriet rarely spoke, so cutting all ties to the outside world was easier than one might expect. 

John spent the first four days settling in and quietly observing. The next five days were spent in a futile effort to whip every part of the flat, aside from Sherlock’s room, into military order. This sparked many arguments, yielded a potent dose of frustration on both sides and resulted in quite a few perfectly good experiments being binned. By day nine John’s offering of meals and tea, which were often ignored by a distracted Sherlock, became a matter of contention and the former doctor took to enforcing health standards on his flatmate and captor. Increasingly restless and irritable, John mentioned his desire to be of use in various contexts daily and, by his expression, thought it far more frequently than he said. He wanted to do _something_ with his second chance at life. However, Sherlock had never really considered that John might just up and walk away.

_Foolish. Of course he is leaving. Why wouldn’t he? This was always supposed to be temporary. Not friendship. Not companionship. No an oddly functional, dysfunctional symbiosis. Not more. That initial interest was only ever adrenaline, misplaced gratitude and quite a lot of having no idea who his supposed savior really was. Now John knows. Knows it all, menacing big brother to body parts in the fridge, and he wants more than that for his life. He wants affection and touch and **not** a blood high-functioning sociopath that comes with the risk of instant death if there is not a barrier of material between them. _

“Baskerville, John. Have you heard of it?” Sherlock turns towards John slowly and narrows his on him. There must be something showing through his mask because John's brown wrinkles and he shifts forward and looks him over more closely. 

“Vaguely.” John shifts back and glances at Henry Knight, his posture wary. “It’s very hush-hush.” 

“Sounds like a good place to start.” Sherlock spins on his toes and strides towards his room. “Pack your bag, John.”

“Sorry, so you both are coming?” Mr. Knight calls in confusion.

Sherlock turns and walks back into the room, looking Henry Knight over carefully. The word ‘liar' is flickering by his left shoulder. Sherlock squints, but cannot discern the origin. He brushes it away. “You go on ahead, Mr. Knight. We’ll follow later.” Mr. Knight looks back and forth between the two of them, then sighs and walks briskly towards the door.

Sherlock turns his attention on John and steps closer. He tips his chin down and fixes the ex-soldier in the same fierce, challenging gaze he did that first afternoon before he took off over the rooftops. The room somehow feels intimate with the intrusion of Henry now removed. He lets the tension flood back into the space between them. Who knows what really awaits them in Dartmoor but John is leaving soon, so Sherlock is going to savor this. He is going to stack the kindling, throw on some petrol and let that quick and fierce burn that they had that first day blaze hot and bright so that it sears his flesh and chars his bones, keeping him warm in everything that will come after they part ways. 

“One missing corpse. A man scared to death. A missing woman and a monstrous hound…” He grins at John and watches as the man’s face transforms; a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, his features moving from trepidation to anticipation and his eyes sparkling with eagerness to meet the challenge. 

“Barritus.” The word drags out; the sound of the Roman battle cry rumbling inside Sherlock’s chest as a deep, ominous crescendo. He leans forward and surprises himself by winking at John with a little click of his tongue before whirling away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave comments!**  
>  I appreciate all the feedback!  
> Special thanks to Sherlocksister for all the feedback and being an all around great person!
> 
> A bit of insight that may be helpful, I am stretching my authorial muscles in this fic and experimenting with some new things. Aside from the first chapter this is in Sherlock's deep point of view (POV) which means you are seeing the world exclusively though _his_ filters. I may well do a chapter or more in John's deep POV as I did in [**Know When You've Been Beaten,**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5747668) but for now, welcome to Sherlock's head, enjoy the ride!


	8. A Relentless Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There appears to be a new game, a bigger game, now. John is leaving and Sherlock has nothing left to lose, so they are playing a high stakes, sexual game of chicken. 
> 
> Sherlock is determined not to flinch first.

> Hugo Knight lived for hunting and was described by all that had the misfortune of meeting him as a _'monstrously evil man.'_ He had an enormous appetite, a fierce temper and the intelligence to bend the world to his will. In the time leading up to the English Civil War he carved his fortune from the misfortune of others; leaving a trail of blood and heartbreak wherever he went. More than being a heartless brute, his reputation told of something beyond the evil of man, for it was said that he was so confident in his cleverness that he had even sold his soul to the Devil, always intending to outwit the King of Hell before he could claim his prize. In return for his soul the Devil had allowed him to call Death itself to heel in the form of an enormous, coal-black Hound that did his bidding. His bidding on one particular night in early October was to murder his kind and humble wife.
> 
> Hugo was said to stand afar and watch with dark delight as the Death Hound toyed with the helpless woman who had the misfortune of marrying and truly caring for such a man. She called out to him in pain as razor sharp claws and teeth tore at her flesh; enough to wound but not to kill, always dangling before her the false hope that she might escape or that her pleas might at last appeal to her husband to call off his Hound. It was in the early hours of dawn when the Death Hound had at last claimed the soul of Mrs. Knight.
> 
> Muzzle still foaming and black fur matted with cooling blood, Hugo bid the enormous beast to fetch him the younger sister of his late wife to take to his bed. She would give him the heir where her sister had failed. But the Devil, a trickster that always got the better end of any agreement, had made a second bargain. He had so played upon the devotion of Hugo’s wife that he had goaded her into making an agreement that if her husband should take her life in order to take another woman she would become Death, forever bound in the form of a hound. She would hunt down and kill Hugo and any Knight offspring. 
> 
> And so it was on that night that a second Hound of Death arose and the Knight family curse was born.
> 
> It is said that on cold, crisp moonless nights the wails of Hugo’s wife can still be heard echoing over the hills and through the woodlands. They get quieter and quieter as she gets closer to you until they become the deafening howl of the Death Hound. And when you, at last, hear the Death Hound, there is nothing in heaven or on earth that can save you.

__________________________

As they settle in for the two and a half hour train ride, Sherlock feels like he is running; heart hammering, lungs straining, flesh hot. He is unsure if he is chasing or being chased. He closes his eyes and breathes, trying to release the pent up anxiety. 

_No sign of Mycroft’s men. No sign of trained killers after John. Maybe, just maybe, they will slip out of London undetected.  
With decoys in play, they've two days tops before everything closes in._

He lets his eyes drift open and he asesses the man in front of him. Something has changed since Sherlock’s wink. John is grinning and his eyes are sparkling in the way they had that first evening. His hand brushes over Sherlock’s gloved hand as he takes the detective’s bag to stow it. He sits across from Sherlock and his legs stretch into the detective’s space; toe of shoe almost touching the inside of Sherlock’s ankle. He watches Sherlock through the reflection in the window. 

Sherlock should be focused on the cases: Henry Knight’s case, the Baskerville case and John’s murder case are all urgent matters. He needs to sink into his Mind Palace and begin to assess variables, determine strategy and untangle these mysteries. Instead he is aware of John; painfully aware of every breath and every shift of that compact body in proximity to his own. He focuses on John; observing and trying to anticipate his next move. 

There appears to be a new game, a bigger game, now. John is leaving and Sherlock has nothing left to lose, whatever the game, Sherlock is determined not to flinch first. 

For now, he waits and observes.

_________________________________

The contrast between the hustling, modern sleekness of London’s Paddington station and the short, empty platform with its squat wooden building among the rolling hills of Yeoford is stark. Sherlock immediately feels the tension building in his shoulders, a prickeling under his skin and an unsettling disorientation as he glances around at the unfamiliar setting. 

He turns his eyes on John and straightens his crumpling posture. Shoving the discomfort down as he leads them briskly towards the car park where the rental place will already have their vehicle waiting for them.

At least the desolation and sparse landscape works in his favor by making it clear that someone is attempting to follow them. As the few other passengers exiting the train at this station drift away, Sherlock notices a large man with a beard doing a poor job of discreetly tracking them. Sherlock keeps his demeanor casual so as to appear unaware. He takes a winding path around to their vehicle and loses the man. 

As John tosses their bags into the back of the large SUV, Sherlock quickly slides into the driver's seat. He starts the engine and puts it in first gear, causing John to scramble to throw himself into the passenger side as Sherlock quickly accelerates.

“Oi. Leaving without me?” John’s brow is furrowed and his eyes are wide with alarm as he pulls his door shut and grabs at his belt. A pang of regret shoots through Sherlock’s chest at that hurt and angry expression on John's face but he doesn’t know how far behind, or how dangerous, the man following them is. If Sherlock can get them away fast enough the man tailing them may not be able to discern where their ultimate destination is and that will buy them valuable time.

Their tires spin and slide as he puts far too much power into getting out of the gravel car park. John clutches at the dash as he is thrown against his own door. Sherlock checks the mirrors surreptitiously as they speed away.

“Sherlock, what the -”

“Someone was following us, John. Didn’t get a good look at him; large man with a beard.”

“Oh… Right.” John sounds oddly relieved. He twists around in his seat to glance back at the empty road behind them. He watches for a moment until he is sure no one is following. “Bit excessive, that…. not as if we’re actually dodging bullets…” He looks over at Sherlock who is continuing to check the mirrors and grip the steering wheel tightly. “Maybe I should drive?” John’s smile is overly soft, an obvious attempt at ingratiating himself.

Sherlock glares at him but makes an effort to relax. John continues to watch him for a long moment with an expression that is irritatingly blank of whatever he may be contemplating. He at last shrugs and turns to look out his own window. They quietly watch the scenery pass as they are folded into the expansive surroundings. 

Soon there is nothing but the plush, rolling, green hills around them as they venture deep into Dartmoor. Sherlock takes a dirt road towards a large cliff that he hopes will afford them an overview of Baskerville. He drives as far as he can and then they get out and walk to the edge of a large outcropping of rock overlooking the military base in the distant valley below. Sherlock climbs up on the tallest rock to get a better view as John scans the map on the ridge below him. 

“That’s it, John.” Sherlock points towards the fenced in complex nestled in the valley below. “Baskerville.” An odd tangle of anticipation and fear rises in him for the answers he might find there.

With the wind whipping around him, Sherlock allows himself to open up and feel this new landscape as he has felt London; to seek its pulse and rhythm so he can settle into it and let its secrets unfold. 

There is an eeriness to the land. It is beautiful but bleak. Devoid of human life as so much of it seems to be, the earth itself is somehow more alive, humming with a unique personality that it need not hush for fear of men. 

Among more shades of green than the eye can possibly discern odd rock formations rise up as a random pattern of gray protrusions. They sometimes appear as stone laid upon stone, like the foundation of ancient homes destroyed by time. Some are large, like megalithic tombs or ancient monuments stripped of their meaning by the persistence of nature, yet they still reverberate the solemnity and sacredness of their intention long after the earth around them has taken their creators in for their final rest. The white mists gathering over parts of the land rolls and slinks across the earth like something alive and restless.

This place feels dark as it crawls under Sherlock’s skin; not in the harsh, gritty way of London, but in a way that seems more dangerous. It feels like a place of ancient, hidden things; mystical enough that every improbable hauntingly beautiful and horrifyingly grotesque thing imaginable lurks just out of sight. 

Sherlock shudders and flips up his coat collar as he turns away to climb down from the rocks.

_________________________________

The whole village of Grimpon suits the landscape it is nestled into. A quiet, medieval village, with cobblestone streets and ancient stone built houses, it is no more obtrusive than the odd stone formations dotting the landscape. This gives the impression that it is caught somewhere in the process of being slowly unmade; persistently enveloped and stripped of the marks of being a creation of man, as these lands have already done with all those other things that came before.

The hairs in the back of Sherlock's neck are standing on end and a cold chill runs over his arms as he glances down the empty street. He studies the stones beneath his feet, trying to pinpoint the source of unease. There is something about this place; something ingrained into its fabric. It builds into a low buzz at the back of his mind like the hushed vibration of every soul that came before. He shifts uncomfortably in the gathering shadows of late day.

He lifts his eyes when the yellow lantern lights on each side of the door of the Cross Keys Pub slowly flicker to life. Through the stone archway he can barely make out the form of John leaning against the counter talking to a skinny blond man behind it, making arrangements for their night. The building is much the same as the rest of the village. A 16th century coach house, it has bare stone walls, flag stone floors, oak beams, and a huge fireplace. 

Sherlock squints his eyes to better discern the man that John is talking to. It could be Billy, the nasally and excitable man Sherlock had talked to on the phone back when he had made these arrangements in London. He bites his lip and contemplates what he is going to do if the man fails to play his role well.

His spirits lift as he sees John's drawn down face when he turns to walk away from the man. Sherlock spins on his heel to look across the moors towards Baskerville before John can emerge. John stands beside him and, after a moment, quietly clears his throat.

“Problem with the card?” Sherlock turns to face him and narrows his eyes on him. “I have some cash.” Sherlock studies John. There is uncertainty, discomfort and slight defensiveness in the set of John's face and shoulders.

“No.” His eyes flick to Sherlock, then away.  
“Where am I, then?” Sherlock holds out his hand for the key to his room, palm up. John shakes his head back and forth; the movement is tense. His lips thrust forward thoughtfully. 

“There's only one.” John watches Sherlock’s expression cautiously. Sherlock is careful not to react, he just continues to stare. “Two beds… just…” John drops the key into Sherlock's hand with a shrug.

“Where are _we,_ then?” Sherlock waits until John has turned and begins to lead the way to the far side of the building before he lets the smile slip onto his face.  
__________________

John tosses his bag on the first bed and immediately moves through the room, checking it with military efficiency. 

Sherlock would prefer to sleep between John and the door, but he says nothing. He moves to the second bed and sits down on the edge with his bag placed at his feet. He watches the ex-soldier’s stiff, vigilant movements with interest.

The room is not so small as to be crowded with two occupants. The two beds are narrow, with a small night stand in between and there is a desk with a wooden chair by the door to the loo. It is tidy and minimally decorated. The carpet is a deep blue, the walls a cream and the duvets and curtains pull both these colors into stripes of various thickness. 

John is on his second pass of the space and nothing about him has relaxed. It is starting to twist anxiety in Sherlock's stomach as well. 

John has reverted to a military mindset, why? Avoidance? The last time John was in such close sleeping quarters with someone must have been in the military. Reverting to that mindset must be an attempt at distancing himself from the forced intimacy of their current situation that might otherwise find their game quickly intensifying.

Sherlock wipes his clammy palms on his trousers. He needs to remain calm and confident. Yes, he had underestimated the implications of this. However, he is still in control. He can set the pace of the game. He has to.

His main focus when arranging these accommodations had been John's protection. He needed to keep him close to keep him from harm. John, of course, would not look upon such arrangements favorably since he was already restless in the much larger confines of 221B. It had been necessary to organize this covertly so John would be more likely to accept it. 

John is standing across the room just staring at him with fists clenching and unclenching at his side. He obviously wants to take some action but he is holding himself in check. 

“Problem, John?” Sherlock keeps his face blank though his insides are roiling. 

“No… it’s… nothing - fine.” John moves to the bed and opens his bag. He pulls each neatly folded item of clothing out and stacks them on the bed one by one until he finds his t-shirt and pajama bottoms, then he packs the rest away. “Plan?”

“Tomorrow we go to the Devonshire estate.” Sherlock rises to his feet, removes his gloves and shoves them in the pocket of his coat. “We start with Mr. Knight and go from there.” He shrugs his coat off and drapes it over the desk chair. “We’ll need-” Sherlock turns and what he had planned to say dies on his lips and permanently flees from his mind. 

John has removed his shirt and is bent over the bed, folding it. The muscles of his strong back glide underneath the lighter brown skin as he moves. Sherlock's fingers itch and his head feels too light. He tries to keep his body from rushing forward without permission. 

_Warm. Sweating. Potentially fevered. Normal core body temperature of a healthy, resting adult male is 37.0 degrees celsius. Potential causes: infection, medication, heat stroke, silicosis..._

Sherlock breathes slowly. He focuses in on the white gauze taped over John's lower back. It's the mystery. Has to be. John is the key to a mystery and that is why he is so drawn to him. John could be the key to understanding how Sherlock's ability works; how a man that sustained fatal injuries can still be walking around due to Sherlock’s touch. It should be impossible, but John is living proof and he wants - no, _needs_ , to understand how it happened. _That_ is what makes him nearly irresistible. That wound on John's back could explain it all.

“I want to see it.” 

“See what?” John doesn't look up as he puts the shirt he's removed in a plastic washbag. 

Sherlock starts to move forward and freezes as John turns around. John's button on his jeans is undone and he's pulling down the zip.

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock waves his hand quickly. Other words spill out of his mouth but he's too busy fleeing to the loo to care what his mind offers in defense. He slams the door behind him and falls hard against it.

He closes his eyes and tries to distance himself from what is happening to his trembling body and adrenaline-addled heart. He just needs to break it down and abstract it into the chemical reactions. That is all it is, after all, chemicals acting on the brain.

>   
>  **Symptoms:** flushed cheeks, a racing heartbeat, trembling, clammy hands. 
> 
> **Cause:** dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin and oxytocin.
> 
> **Dopamine:** also activated by cocaine and nicotine.
**Norepinephrine:** otherwise known as adrenalin, same as a really good case. 
**Serotonin:** found to cause temporary Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. 
**Oxytocin:** plays a role in social bonding, activates feelings of trust and attraction. 

> 
> **Culprit:** biochemical malfunction. Ancient Greeks referred to it as _eros_ or _theia mania_ "madness from the gods."  
>  Commonly called attraction or _love._
> 
>  **Cure:** none known.

Sherlock slides down until he is sitting on the floor and lets his head fall forward into his hands.

_No, no, no.  
This is not good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again a big Thank You to @SherlocksSister!  
> Thanks for all the comments. Some of you may see how your questions and observations drive me and inspire my creative juices, so please keep them coming!


	9. Storms

> At this very moment, the little body of William Sherlock Scott Holmes is precariously perched on the outer ledge of the large, curved staircase overlooking the foyer of the Holmes family’s grand, Victorian home. His small fingers cling to the ornate, wrought-iron balustrade as he shuffles his toes along the tiny ledge. He is precisely 6 years, 8 weeks, 3 days, 5 hours and 23 minutes old.
> 
> Determining that stairs are far too _boring_ a way to get from one place to another, the young boy with the big imagination judges them to be booby-trapped. Naturally, any daring pirate worth his salt must find an alternative route. 
> 
> At the distant sound of the latch clicking, William quickly drops down and grabs onto the cornicing set into the wall. With the tiniest of foot and hand holds, he rapidly eeks out his path of descent. He leaps the final distance to the first floor, runs through the huge hall and nearly collides with his older brother just as he steps in the front door. 
> 
> “Mycroft! Mycroft! You’re back from school!” William bounces on his toes around his older brother; breathless and as eager as a puppy. 
> 
> Mycroft winces and turns away; slowly shutting the door. He keeps his hand flat against the door, leaning forward and bowing his head a moment.
> 
> “Don’t state the obvious, Sherlock. It’s an insult to your intelligence, as well as mine.” His voice is hoarse and cold and his posture is rigid. 
> 
> William’s heart drops and he stills his body. It has been five months since Mycroft first started calling him _Sherlock._ It does not pass the younger boy’s attention that the times when Mycroft does so coincides with his older brother being in a particularly dark mood. Sometimes it appears that arguments with their father, indiscernible behind closed doors, are the cause of these shifts in temperament. At other times, the younger boy has no idea why Mycroft has grown so cold and distant. Still, he persists with hope.
> 
> "You said you'd teach me more about my Mind Palace." William reminds; cautiosly containing his excitement to appear to be the best possible pupil. Mycroft has never been one to ‘play' but they both derive enjoyment from the time his older brother invests in teaching him. 
> 
> “Not now, Sherlock.” Mycroft's voice rasps, low and sharp with warning.
> 
> A wave of petulant irritation rises in William for the bitter disappointment of Mycroft arriving home disinclined to feed his desperate need for knowledge, attention and engagement. Too advanced to join other children his age at school, there is little else in William’s world other than Mycroft. Since their parents have insisted Mycroft needs to go to a day school to be around other children and master social skills, Sherlock is left with hours of tedious boredom. The entertainment of evading the hired help wore off months ago. 
> 
> “You promised.” William insists ardently, his fists clenching as his voice drifts from demanding towards a whine. “I’ve been so terribly bored all day, Mycroft.” 
> 
> “I never promise.” Mycroft's flicks a dismissive hand towards the younger boy as he turns his back on him and walks away. 
> 
> William’s eyes narrow on his older brother’s back, alert and assessing, with the desperate hope of discovering a lever to shift his brother's disposition. He tilts his head when he takes note of Mycroft’s strange, staggering walk. 
> 
> _Why is he walking like that?_
> 
> “What happened?” William bounds after his brother, practically dancing around him in a quick circle; studying him and excitedly gathering in all that he can observe. 
> 
> The older boy tries to ignore William buzzing around him. With his chin held high and eyes narrow, Mycroft proceeds to hobble towards his room. “Irrelevant. Sherlock, I'm really not -” 
> 
> _Limping. Tear in the front of his shirt. Busted lip. Black eye. Nasty scrape on cheek. Bruised knuckles. Large smear of dirt on the back. A battle!_
> 
> “Shoved backwards.” The younger boy imitates the motion he perceives began the tussle. His face is lit with excitement as his mind pieces together the epic battle that occurred between Mycroft and... _a band of dastardly pirates_? Mycroft draws up short, startled. 
> 
> “More than one attacker. An ambush!”
> 
> “Sherlock, don't-” Mycroft’s face is hardening.
> 
> “Fists flying. Thrown down on the ground. Dragged.” Sherlock moves in closer; words spilling out with enthusiasm, his whole body animated with the thrill of that reimagined altercation. “Overpowered. Thrown onto your stomach. Face forced roughly against concrete-”
> 
> “Don’t!” Mycroft’s eyes are wild as he grabs the younger boy by his shirt and forces him back until he slams against the wall. William is too shocked to struggle. “Don't be smart, Sherlock!” He seethes through a clenched jaw. After a few breaths, his eyes dull slightly and turn from anger to dispassionate disdain. “I'm the smart one.” Mycroft releases the younger boy. He smooths back his hair with a shaky hand. “You’re just a foolish, ignorant child.” Mycroft coldly turns away.
> 
> “If I'm such an idiot, then teach me!” Sherlock spouts, clenching his fists again and leaning forward with unflinching determination.
> 
> Mycroft turns and stares at William a long moment with unreadable, stony eyes. The younger boy does not relent; little fists clenched, head held high, eyes narrow and bubbling with frustration. 
> 
> At last, Mycroft closes his eyes and tips his head back. He sighs, body slumping slightly, before leveling his stare on the younger boy again. “Fine, Sherlock.” Mycroft continues towards his room. “I will teach you. Today's lesson is how to delete things from your Mind Palace.”
> 
> Mycroft winces and then clenches his jaw into a hard, set line as they settle, facing each other, cross-legged on his bedroom floor. The older boy then walks him through the process of deleting information. 
> 
> With Mycroft’s instruction, William takes the hour mother had made him sit in the corner for dissecting a snake on her cutting board last week, folds it into a small envelope and tosses it into an imaginary fire within his mind. The process requires complete concentration but not very much time. Yet, as they work the room grows dark, coloured in an eerie gray light with dark clouds rolling in.
> 
> Done with the task, William opens his eyes and, dropping his steepled hands, beams at his brother with pride and delight over the newly mastered skill. He is alarmed to find his brother's face clenched tight, his whole body shaking with strain. Water cuts paths from the corner of his eyes down his cheeks. He's never seen Mycroft cry before. 
> 
> “What's wrong?” 
> 
> When Mycroft opens his eyes his face goes smooth and eerily absent of any emotion. Like the sudden stillness before a violent storm, it creates an unsettling contrast to the deep pain evident in the lingering shine of wetness on his cheeks. He looks through his younger brother. “Some things… can't be deleted.”
> 
> “What? Why?”
> 
> Mycroft rises silently to his feet and walks to the window. His back turned to William, he watches the trees in the garden toss in the wind of the incoming storm. 
> 
> “Emotion; An obsolete disturbance, the fly in the ointment, the grit on the lens, the great curse of human existence. Intelligent people control their emotions by the application of reason. However, no matter how we try to rise above it, we are primal beings. Our primitive brains, in an effort to protect us from future harm, will not allow the things we are most likely to wish to delete, those moments with intensely emotional associations, to ever truly be removed. Encase them. Lock them up. Bury them deep... but you will _never_ delete them, brother mine.” 
> 
> A sudden flash floods the room and the outside world with a surreal, cold, white light. As it fades, a sharp crack of thunder pierces the ear and trails off to a low, earth-shaking rumble like the growl of a massive beast awakening. 
> 
> William's heart is beating rapidly in his chest as he scrambles to his feet. He stares at his older brother. As the first large drops of rain splatter against the window pane behind Mycroft, William's chest is heaving. He is just barely resisting the urge to run or curl in on himself in some pathetic, fearful reaction to the sudden assault on his senses. 
> 
> Storms had once been unbearable for William until Mycroft had sat with him in his hiding place in the cupboard and calmly unraveled the mystery; striping what always seemed like violent, senseless chaos down to its complicated, but logical, foundation. _‘So you see, Sherlock,’_ Mycroft had concluded, _‘A storm is actually a force of complete, emotionless logic. It brings life and destroys life without intention or regard. It just is.’_ Somehow that _had_ comforted William.
> 
> “Emotion is a characteristic of the losing side, Sherlock.” Mycroft turns his head to look over his shoulder; observing William. He stands before the raging storm, his face emotionless, even as he is bruised, bloody and tear streaked. William feels a cold chill shiver through him. 
> 
> “Losing side?” William’s voice is almost hopeful and entreating as he narrows his eyes on his brother, searching for some shred of humanity. This Mycroft; a force of completely calm, cold, emotionless logic does _not_ comfort him. “What - what have you lost?” Mycroft braces himself against the window sill; his head bowing and an almost tangible frigid air radiating off of him. 
> 
> Outside, the wind and rain rage, wrenching leaves and branches from the trees and pummeling the field of daisies on the hill beyond. 
> 
> “Leave.” His voice is so inhuman; empty of all emotion.
> 
> It is the last teaching session William Sherlock Scott Holmes ever receives from his older brother. 

_________________

Sherlock does not sleep. He stays awake; vigilant, his mind whirling faster and faster like some faulty centrifuge. The speed of his rapidly spinning thoughts forces separation; the denser emotions are pinned to the outer walls while the purified logic settles into the center. It is a short-lived relief to the tangled chaos.

He just needs to go back. It is that simple. He just needs to return to the way he was before John Watson. It had taken him 19 years to grow hard and cold to the outside world. He had disciplined himself not to depend on anything or anyone. He had earned that invulnerability to the callous cruelty of the human condition by making himself immune; strong in a solid shell of armor that no one could penetrate. He spewed acid at anyone that dared to try. How quickly he had surrendered all that to John Watson. It was a ridiculous moment of weakness, _that's all._

He dresses in the early hours before dawn and sits stiffly on the edge of his bed, staring at the unfamiliar walls of the too small hotel room and just waiting. He tries not to let his mind dwell on the sound of John’s steady breathing in the darkness encasing them. Still, his mind dances around the edges of the man so close to him. Refusing to touch those emotions he is trying hard to eradicate, he forces his contemplations to remain logical, remote and abstract. 

It should be simple. Just shove this new surge of emotions back into _the box,_ wrap the chains around it and sink it deep in that bottomless lake in the center of his Mind Palace. Yet he finds it too slippery now. Those stirrings of emotion cling to John; interwoven in his very fabric, reemerging and whispering their way to the surface with every look, gesture and word. 

_He can’t contain them anymore._

At breakfast he sits across from John at the small table at the Cross Keys Pub and presses his fingers into the scalding hot ceramic of the coffee cup. The pain is an anchor. He looks anywhere but at his companion, distracting himself with picking at irrelevant data wherever he can find it in the patronless establishment. 

He does not even make the pretense of eating. His stomach rolls and clenches unnaturally at the mere thought. The uncomfortable sensation of being adrift on a turbulent ocean; trying to steady and orient himself in the constantly shifting world, makes it dangerous to even try. 

John eats slowly and shifts frequently in his seat, emitting little sighs that indicate he is struggling not to say something. He tries to elicit conversation; prodding with questions and inane observations. When Sherlock bothers to respond, he keeps it brief; just on the civil side of curtness. 

His mind drifts around the concept of necromancy, the ancient practice of communicating with and raising the dead. In ancient times Necromancers were not permitted to eat any other meat but the meat of _dogs,_ guardians of the underworld. The irony feels like the build up to a joke at his expense.

He shudders. If he never smells cooked meat again, it will be too soon. 

The sound of John clearing his throat and the pressure of his gaze brings Sherlock back from his thoughts. He looks down at the cup, contents now cold, and then across to John’s plate, now cleared of food. He feels John’s eyes on him, searching, but he does not dare to meet his gaze. 

“I’ll pay.” Sherlock rises to his feet and strides to the counter. The petite, blond man that checked John into the inn last night is there, doing a poor job of pretending to wipe the counter as he watches John.

“Oh, how’s it going, sweetie?” His voice is high, lilting and nasally. Sherlock instantly recognizes it as the one he spoke to on the phone to arrange their accommodations; Billy. 

Billy’s head is tilted and his face is full of a gentle pity that grates on Sherlock’s every (already heightened) nerve. His stomach clenches. 

It seems less and less relevant that what Billy believes was not so much a blatant lie as a reasoning Billy himself had offered and Sherlock had failed to deny. 

When Sherlock explained that a man of John's description needed to be told that the inn could not accommodate the two of them in anything other than a double room, Billy had excitedly posited that Sherlock intended to use this as an opportunity to make his move from friendship to _more_. Sherlock had not corrected this assumption and let him prattle on gleefully about how he had used the pretense of a power cut during a storm as an opportunity to 'get into the knickers of Gary, the owner of the pub. Huddling together for warmth, Gary’s resistance finally broke and he made his move. 

Sherlock had tuned him out at the time. He now sees he should have considered what Billy's story indicated about the impact of close sleeping quarters on interpersonal relationships. Sherlock is unable to put on any pretense that will explain the current interactions with John, or lack thereof, in the context of that lie. 

“Keep the excess.” Sherlock slides a generous amount of cash onto the bar, his tone making it clear that he doesn't wish to discuss anything further. He is surprised when Billy’s small hand shoots out and lands on top of his own before he can pull away. Sherlock freezes under that unexpected touch. Billy’s palm against the back of his hand is soft, warm and a little wet from the rag. He leans in towards Sherlock over the bar, his voice dropping a little. 

“It’s ok, love, give it another night and he won't be able to resist ravaging you.” He sighs, glancing towards John. “A lot of denial there… Yesterday he was insisting he is not even gay.” Billy rolls his eyes in exasperation. He removes his hand, picks up the cash and smiles brightly over Sherlock's shoulder as the sound of approaching feet comes to a stop.

“Problem?” John’s stern voice raises the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck even as his brain swims.

“Oh, just thanking this gorgeous man for his generous tip.” Billy smiles brightly, waving the money for John to see. “Don’t worry. Wouldn’t dream of trying anything, sweetie. Gary has a touch of _jealous_ in him too.” He makes a sound that starts like an appreciative hum and ends like a little growl to clearly indicate how sexy he finds this quality. His eyes sweep over John and he gives him a cheeky wink before turning away.

Sherlock is blinking rapidly, his mouth hanging open slightly as he tries to process it all. John clears his throat again and Sherlock whirls away; his coat snapping around him as he pulls on his gloves and briskly strides to their SUV. John is close behind him.

__________________

“Are you… uh… _rich_?” John looks up at Henry Knight with eyes glimmering with wonder at the opulence of their surroundings. He has taken up a military parade rest stance, but with his head ducked slightly and his shoulders turned down as if he has something about himself to be ashamed of.

They are standing in the massive foyer of Mr. Knight’s Devonshire estate, replete with cold marble and rich, dark wood. It is a chilling reminder of Sherlock’s own massive, soulless, childhood home. 

Mr. Knight glances up at the painting of Hugo Knight; eyes stern and cold, staring down at them from within a gilded frame. 

“Yeah, John.” He smiles slightly, leveling his eyes on John, palms up and out. “I am.” 

Sherlock grits his teeth as the world makes that nauseating shift and roll under his feet again. He doesn't like the way the man says John’s name, the look in his eyes nor his smile. There is too much warmth, intensity, and slyness in all of it. It is all a bit wolfish. 

He cuts between John and Mr. Knight, leaning in close to the man that reeks of expensive cologne. “You’ve got a bit of damp.” He points up at a small discolored patch on the ceiling. Before Mr. Knight can react Sherlock moves past him into the kitchen. 

Sherlock watches both Mr. Knight and John through narrowed eyes as they sit in the small, modern bar next to a massive floor to ceiling window. 

In the morning light, Mr. Knight's skin is sallow, his eyes are duller than the day before and there are faint darkened circles of puffiness under his eyes. He is exhausted; haunted by his own fears. He moves slowly about, making the coffee. Each move is deliberate, yet unsteady. 

Sherlock tries to focus on Mr. Knight as he describes the _whirlwind romance_ with his fiancee. However, the word ‘LIAR' is bold now, with lines attaching to his eyes, lips, and hands.

Distractingly, a lowercase version of the same word flickers over John in Sherlock's peripheral vision. It disappears every time he looks directly at John.

The audio clip of Sherlock's conversation with Billy keeps churning to the surface. An edge of doubt is slashing at him leaving tiny, irritating paper cuts. Sherlock can’t trust his own mind to discern observations anymore and it is _terrifying._

_John asked to kiss Sherlock, had implied they could do more and appeared to be flirting as they embarked on this trip... but John is **not** gay. All evidence pointed to John’s killer wanting something from his safe... yet there was nothing there of value. Mr. Knight appears attracted to John... yet he has a fiancee._

“Do you have a photo of Ms. Lyons?” Both men look over at Sherlock with slight shock. He has interrupted a rather florid telling of how Mr. Knight first met Mrs. Lyons on the moore, walking off a heated discussion with his uncle. Apparently, if he hadn't been so lost within his own frustration that he misstepped and twisted his ankle they might have never met.

“Yeah. Sure.” Mr. Knight picks up his mobile phone and begins thumbing through it. “Beautiful as she is, she’s never been fond of having her picture taken.” 

Sherlock hums thoughtfully and Mr. Knight looks up at him questioningly as he hands the phone over. Sherlock examines the photo. 

In the image they are lying back on the grass. Mr. Knight is holding out his phone and beaming in an overly cheerful way at the camera. The smile is forced, and the eyes don't match; looking hesitant, shielded. _Liar_ flashes before Sherlock's eyes, emblazoned across Mr. Knight’s image, as he assesses his body language in relation to the dark haired woman beside him. 

Laura Lyons, now _she_ is intriguing. Sherlock feels a strange pang in his chest as he studies her.

Long, straight, black hair and olive skin, she is turned in profile to face Mr. Knight. The hand of her far arm is curled below her chin; fingertips resting lightly against Mr. Knight's jaw. The other arm rests over his chest, hand slightly clenched in the fabric of the shirt over his heart. Her face in nearly buried in his cheek, but her eyes are open and her lips are parted. There is tension in the corner of her eyes; she is hiding something from him, a secret that makes her sad and afraid. Yet every inch of her screams how much she adores him; how she knows that he does not feel the same but she can't help herself in trying to hold on to him.

“Quite lovely.” John's voice from close beside Sherlock as he leans in to look at the picture on Mr. Knight’s phone screen, snaps Sherlock back from his contemplation of Laura. He blinks at the dimming screen and files the image away in his Mind Palace.

“Quite.” Sherlock keeps all but the faintest edge out of his tone. His dislike for Mr. Knight is only increasing. 

“You said you argued with your uncle. Concering what?” Sherlock hands the phone back to Mr. Knight. 

Mr. Knight takes it, turning away and sighing. His shaking hand sets the phone aside to seek his cigarette case on the counter. He shakes one out, places it between his lips and lights it. He draws deeply and puffs a cloud of smoke before continuing. A small wave of gratitude fills Sherlock as he inhales and a need buzzing at the back of his mind abates slightly.

“My uncle had been very ill for a long time. I was called back home seven months ago. When I arrived, he told me he'd decided to stop getting treatment for his cancer. He said he had beaten it twice and was tired of fighting. The chemo made him so miserably ill, he just wanted to enjoy the time he had left.”

“So sorry, Henry.” John’s face is open and he is so easily and sincerely empathetic for Mr. Knight that Sherlock can only marvel. The ex-army doctor has surely seen more senseless death than Sherlock, yet he somehow retains the ability to feel deeply, even for a complete stranger's death. “Did he… have long?”

“No one knew for sure but he seemed hardy enough. Since he'd stopped the chemo some of his color and energy came back… he'd even started to regrow some of his hair.” Mr. Knight smiles faintly and John smiles back. Sherlock barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“So you stood to inherit all the family fortune with his death.” The mood of the room shifts instantly as all eyes turn back to Sherlock. Sherlock keeps his face blank as he stares at Mr. Knight.

“I don't think I like what you are implying, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. Knight bristles, his eyes flaring with steely anger.

“I'm not implying anything, just observing a fact.” Sherlock rises to his feet, sweeping the other man's indignation aside with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He barrels on, determined to conclude the questioning and leave this too large and empty house to its deceptive inhabitant as soon as possible.

“A large man with a beard appeared to be tracking us at the train station. Do you know anything about that?” Sherlock moves around the room, lightly inspecting the contents. It appears this area is primarily used by Henry Knight.

“No. I can't think of anyone...” Mr. Knight's face is full of genuine shock and alarm. “Although…” Mr. Knight tilts his head, considering it as he takes another drag on the cigarette. “The groundskeeper, Mr. Barrymore, could fit that description and I did tell him you were coming… but… well, perhaps he thought it would be a kindness to greet you and show you the way here?”

“Interesting sense of hospitality; skulking in the shadows.” Sherlock quirks his lip into a sneer. “Where might we find Mr. Barrymore?”

“He and his wife live in a small house on this property about eight hundred meters west.”

“And Ms. Lyons. Where did she reside?”

“With her brother, James, outside Gidleigh, about three kilometres from here.” Mr. Knight scribbles an address on a nearby notepad and pushes it over the counter to Sherlock. 

“We'll be in touch, Mr. Knight.” Sherlock snatches up the paper, turns and sweeps back through the hall to the front foyer without so much as a backward glance. He is relieved when he hears John running to catch up with him as he opens the door.

“You don't really think he'd kill his uncle and come to you to investigate, do you?” John moves in front of Sherlock as he steps just outside the door.

“Greed, for money in particular, is among the most common causes for murder, John.” Sherlock lets his eyes sweep over John for the first time today. This next part will be tricky. He buttons his coat against the sudden chill and pulls on his gloves. John's stare lingers on Sherlock's black, leather clad hands until he shoves them in his pocket.

“Mr. Knight is well off enough to have little need for the fortune of his uncle. In any case he need only wait to get his hands on it. So something more is at play. Someone felt urgently compelled to kill a man that was already destined to die within a few months.” Sherlock strides past John towards the SUV.

When he reaches the vehicle he stops and turns towards John. 

“You take the vehicle, go to Gidleigh and speak to James Lyons. Inquire about his sister; what her emotional state was, if she had any enemies.” Sherlock takes the piece of paper with the address out of his pocket and thrusts it towards John. 

“What? Alone? What about you?” John glances at the paper but makes no move to claim it.

“I will have a look around the grounds and speak to Mr. and Mrs. Barrymore.” Sherlock extends the paper a little further towards John, flattening his lips and lifting his eyebrows with a commanding expression.

“Think that is wise?” John looks at the paper and back up at Sherlock with his head tilted, brow furrowed and his lips slightly pursed. He is obviously thinking about the last time one of them took off during a case and a serial killing cabbie nearly made their separation permanent.

“Time is short. A woman is missing. Assuming she is still alive, she will only remain so if we act fast. We will accomplish more if we divide the work.”

Sherlock steps forward and grabs John’s left hand with both of his own, pushing the paper into its palm insistently. John swallows and stares at his hand encased in Sherlock's. 

Sherlock should drop John's hand and step back, but he is frozen. Since his revelation last night, he has kept his distance from John. He has managed to avoid being fully conscious of the other man by abstracting him, dividing his attention and distracting himself. Now they are so close that all Sherlock’s senses are filled with him and it's intoxicating. 

“Sherlock?” John slowly pulls his eyes up to meet the detective’s again and there is some of that heat from the restaurant, and the steel from when he saved Sherlock from the cabbie and something new that is overwhelming in its intensity. Everything is fire and Sherlock is burning.

“Observe -” Sherlock swallows, his chest tight with the suddenly heavy air. His mind is unable to wrestle back control over his hands holding John's hand, nor his feet that have grown roots into the earth, nor his eyes, magnetically adhered to John's. However, his mouth seems somewhat capable so he continues letting the words spill out in the hopes the rest will unlock. “Observe Mr. Lyons and anything that may be relevant about his sister. Observe her room, if you can. If she has a diary or mobile, retrieve it, _discreetly._ ”

John moves forward a small step and the world is suddenly heaving and shifting. Sherlock closes his eyes. He sucks in a shaky breath as he is overtaken by the memory of that body beneath him, the strength and steady waves of breathing, a hand sliding inside his pocket; heat, friction, and pressure against his hip. His knees are weak, his body is trembling. He is certain John is going to do something and, alarmingly, he wants it. He knows he won't be able to resist.

“Could be dangerous.” John’s voice is lower. It jolts Sherlock; a current of electricity blazing along his nerves and exploding across his brain in fragments of memories overlapping, shattering, reforming. 

_John in the alley in a pool of blood. Finger in fire. First smile. Hand around wrist. Racing across roof tops. Hand on back of seat. Gunshot. Wine and blood. Leaning in close for that deadly kiss. Deep breath. Lying on John's bed. John turning in alley, looking back, almost seeing. Glass of wine to lips. Reaching. Running. Shattered glass. Hand slipping in pocket. Running._

Sherlock releases John and staggers backward; bewildered and confused by what came over him. 

“Ridiculous. I assure you, John, I was capable of taking care of myself before I met you. I can handle one curious caretaker.” Sherlock flips up his collar, turns west and strides away. It is both truer and more a lie than he hopes he will ever have to explain to John. “Two hours, John,” he calls over his shoulder.

Sherlock doesn't slow as he hears the door slam, the engine start, and the gravel crunch beneath the tires as John drives away. He waits until the vehicle disappears on the long drive before he turns back towards the large mansion. 

A few moments later, Sherlock is speeding down the drive in a sleek, black helmet on a _‘borrowed’_ 1939 Vincent-HRD Series-A Rapide motorbike.

 _Two hours._ With any luck he will be back before John ever knows he is gone and before Mr. Knight ever misses his motorbike.  
___________


	10. Weeds

Sherlock digs his teeth into his bottom lip until flesh gives way in a sharp flare of pain and the metallic tang of blood drops onto his tongue. The pain is _real_ and he needs that to circumvent the faulty signals hijacking his brain. What had started as a contortion in his stomach and a vague sense of something amiss, has transformed into something unignorable; a sensation that ventures uncomfortably close to fear. His heart pounds in his ears as his lungs struggle against invisible hands squeezing them. There is barbed wire in his gut; wrapping tight around everything, digging in, criss-crossing his insides and pulling everything taut. His legs twitch, barely resisting the latent urge to bolt. 

There is... _something_ … something about this place that is deeply unsettling. 

Once more he attempts to firmly clamp down on the swell of these disquieting impulses; to pull it from the shadows into the cold, hard light of analysis. Trusting in impulses is fallacy. He refuses to fall victim to what one might call _intuition_. Instinct is nothing more than a prepared mind making a critical observation on a subconscious level. If it has any truth to it, the empirical evidence can be unearthed with application of analytical reasoning. The cause must be here before him if he just looks hard enough.

He is missing _something._

Squinting into the distance, his eyes dance over the stark, sprawling earth stretching away from the little pet cemetery. He tries to trace this apprehension back to its source; seeking that faint flicker of incongruous data; that error in the code underlying the natural order of the world.

 _Patterns._

His mind naturally seeks patterns and discerns their intricate and fragile connections where others see nothing. And there is something here, just out of sight. It is as if the landscape is trying to speak but in an incomprehensible dialect; a long-dead language of shadows and stones in cryptic arrangements, forming into some sort of Braille. Sherlock shakes his head, dismissing the thought. _Illogical._ He turns up the collar of his Belstaff against the faint breeze, trying to sink into that familiar armor. Yet, it now feels less like a shield and more like a ridiculously feeble and oversized shell. He feels small; a child wearing his father’s oversized coat. His fingers find his lips and he is startled to find them trembling. 

_Nicotine withdrawal… that is all._

Just a chemical defect in the brain. He simply needs a cigarette. Sherlock tilts his head back to study the ashen sky. There is no one to see him here, to stop him from digging the cigarette he nicked from Mr. Knight and Lestrade’s lighter out of the hidden pocket of his coat and indulging... yet... he cannot shake the notion that eyes are upon him. Just out of sight, slipping like shadows along his peripheral vision and rustling gently in the undergrowth. He can sense it in the way prey can always sense a predator in that second before it pounces. He is being hunted. Ancient things are stirring and writhing beneath his skin, like whispers just outside the range of hearing. Chills race up his sides and along his back in sinuous waves as he glances around. 

There is more than a _Devil Hound_ in this land to fear.

He tilts his head and listens. There is nothing. Silence. This hushed stillness is, after all, what prickles at him; a burr that irritates him only when he stands too still. Something he doesn’t let himself look at directly; a darkness that only catches him if he stops moving. He sees now, with a twinge of dread, that this agitation cannot be traced back to an external observation, comforting with its cold and hard remoteness. This apprehension derives its strength and potency from the darkness inside himself. Along the edges of his mind there is the fuzzy, oversaturated heaviness of _memories_ gathering like an oppressive storm. 

He realizes now that London has been, in and of itself, an escape from this lurking _something._ Its bustling streets have been a way to be anonymous and disconnected even amid the crowd; apart but never really alone. The cacophony of noise, sights and scents have been a shield against ever having to deal with the things that emerge in the absence of stimulus; the frightening truths that turn from whispers to roars in too much silence and stillness.

Here, pinned in the vast emptiness between earth and sky, there is only _him._  
And he is his own worst enemy. 

Something is pushing its way to the surface; embedded so deeply that pulling it free feels like being stabbed in reverse. Sherlock’s throat closes on a sound. His hand moves to his chest, and he looks down, disoriented by the lack of physical wound to account for that sharp and lingering pain in his chest. In spite of his persistent efforts to bury everything from childhood deep within an inescapable grave, memories are worming their way to the surface now. They are pushing up like weeds, twisting, curling and penetrating the dirt, wrapping their icy, cold fingers around Sherlock’s ankles and threatening to drag him down into the deep darkness of that oppressive childhood. 

It is a sudden fog rolling in; chilling and clinging. It’s approach is quick, overtaking him and resting heavily around him. As it curls through him, it leaves emotions, from a time when everything was raw and unbridled, clinging to his insides like cold dew. He can't breathe in that suffocating cloud, thick with the acrid smell of smoke. He is helpless to escape it. His blood has been turned to a liquid metal, an iridescent sheen of mercury coating his insides and weighing him down. 

The memories flash; lightning illuminating the pitch black, only to discover he is not where he thought himself to be. He is standing in an unfamiliar room; a room that, with a sickening lurch of disorientation and fear, he recognizes from a childhood nightmare.

>   
> **_Flash:_** A garden, heavy with the scent of roses, the buzz of bees, the bitter taste of fear in sharp contrast to the warmth of sun. A bright yellow flower with a center like a black hole, withering before his eyes. Sadness stinging at him like a thousand angry hornets, but he stands perfectly still.   
> **_Flash:_** Mycroft’s young face with cuts across his cheek. Hurt and angry eyes. Humiliation a rising tide, swelling up through him to pull him under.  
>  ** _Flash:_** A dark wood, cool and shaded. A small, black, lifeless, feathered body; still and with its neck unnaturally contorted. A small hand. Bright curiosity meeting a dark cloud of anger. The sharp edge of unfairness.   
> **_Flash:_** Father’s strong hands, calloused from countless hours of work with garden tools, flying out to grab him. Grasping his too small body firmly, and yanking. Fear and confusion tumbling headlong over each other.  
>  _Blackness._  
> 

Sherlock pants, his heart thudding in his chest as he opens his eyes and looks around. _When had he closed them?_ He digs a shaky hand into his hair and pulls a little, the pain pulling him free from the last clinging vestiges of those slowly retreating memories. They sinks back down into their dark hiding places, flattening themselves into shadows. Sherlock is left with the lingering smell of charred paper and the nauseating taste of ash coating his tongue. 

Those... _things_ … those memories… they should **not** exist. They were deleted. Consumed within that fire within his mind where all the useless and unwanted things meet their demise. Yet... **_they survive._**

Sherlock feels an earthquake radiating from his core. Shifting and cracking his foundation. 

_No. Sherlock Holmes does not get afraid._

He quells the sudden urge to retch by breathing deeply and straightening his spine. It would only be a painful act of futility, his stomach is empty anyhow. He just needs a distraction. He needs to keep moving, can't slow down, can't let it all catch up. 

He looks up as a tall, thin, curly haired woman enters the cemetery and moves through the area briskly, stopping at a new grave. Relief floods his body and he relaxes, straightening his spine and assuming his calm, collected persona. 

The game is on. Time to get some answers.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a "series" for the Fall TV Season Sherlock Tumblr challenge. It is a fusion with the TV show Pushing Daisies that aired from Oct. 2007 - June 2009.
> 
> All thanks to ChrisCalledMeSweetie for getting me involved!
> 
>  
> 
> **Your feedback in the form of Kudos and Comments is greatly appreciated.**


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